Sound of Snow Falling
by theWrongImpressionist
Summary: In which Obi-Wan gets an education in the Living Force whether he wants it or not, Qui-Gon further embraces his not-so-inner maverick, and Voldemort engages in a little biological warfare.
1. you by my side

_sound of snow falling_  
by TheWrongImpressionist  
beta'd by MerryAmelie

_in which: _

Obi-Wan gets an education in the Living Force (whether he wants it or not),  
Qui-Gon further embraces his not-so-inner maverick, and  
Voldemort engages in a little biological warfare.

-one-  
_-you by my side-_

"Master. I will make the jump."

Behind the smooth surface, his face floats in calm, healing serenity. Bubbles of liquid rise like glass beads from the mouth and nose of his Master, and he runs a hand down his Padawan braid, touching the three small beads wound into its coils, wondering what it would be like to feel them slide up his throat and out his orifices in perfect liquid silence. No one remembers what bacta is like once they're out.

His Master's eyes, tinted green like everything else in the tank, are half-lidded and return Obi-Wan's gaze with the lack of judgment of the unconscious. He leans forward over his knees and presses his palms, then forehead, to the ground in respect, as if his Master's eyes were blue and alive again and watching his Padawan. His skin shivers at the contact. It's cold.

He rises, hesitates; allows himself to touch the tank in a moment of gentle longing; and passes the emotion to the Force. He tries, but cannot completely pass the others. Disappointing. But not surprising.

When he leaves the room, the internal sensors note his absence and he catches a brief impression of the darkened space he leaves behind, lit only by the glow of the tank and darker than the star-lit expanse of black outside. Darkness imitates night; night heralds sleep; sleep is essential to recovery. He knows this, and acknowledges this, and lets these thoughts and others pass unhurried through his mind on his way to the pilot's chair. It's empty, and suffused with a bone-deep chill, just like the rest of the tiny ship. At his request, the Force warms him.

One last time, Obi-Wan attempts to open himself fully to the Force, to the possibilities of what he's about to do. One more time, he receives the self-knowledge that the Force isn't acknowledging him right now – or, more correctly, he It - because of his own inner turmoil. Turmoil that shouldn't be there.

But it is, and it shames him, and he shames his Master, but at least he can recognize this about himself: that he is too conflicted to receive any guidance from the Force on this matter.

He enters a series of commands.

He and Qui-Gon jump to hyperspace.

* * *

The trip goes well. Until it doesn't.

The Force froths around and in him in blunt, immediate warning. The next second, the ship careens wildly out of hyperspace – with a lurch, he's thrown from standing to prostrate across the control panel of the cockpit, crushing his ribs and a wide band of controls beneath him. Warning sirens blare methodically, shrilly, as the tiny vessel shudders and whines under the searing tear of unexpected hyperspace exit; when his nose _smashes_ against the edge of the controls, his cry echoes in harmony with the wailing machine.

Heartbeat elevated, Obi-Wan stifles a gag reflex, scrapes himself from the blinking lights under his body, turns to the panel and wheezes while his fingers work in acceleration to calm the system. Quick seconds later, it's as good as it's going to get. He backs away from the controls, puts his hands over his chest to still the whistling in his breath with the Force, lets the blood drips down his nose and watches.

The pirates come.

From the behind the shadow of the asteroid, whose gravity well even now continues its pulling seduction of his craft, three vessels, armed visibly in the mismatched way of scavengers, emerge in aggressive, stealthy succession. The craft stabilizes under his feet – somewhat – with the last of its barely functioning systems and shudders with the fear of a scared animal. The pirate ships pause and hover as one, a single hungry vulture waiting. Watching. And the seconds tick by slowly.

All it'll take is one decent shot, and the ship will buckle, as brittle and fragile as bird bones.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. The thick scent of blood already floods his taste, a portent of an imminent future. Pirates have no use for the slim pickings he can offer. Death is probable. _As the Master, so the Padawan;_ they'll both die today.

It seems silly now, that earlier, all he could think about was his Master alone making the journey.

But the relief is shameful in nature; that he should be grateful he won't have to live without...is shameful. Unbefitting of a Jedi, and a discredit to his Master...He tries to soothe his guilt with a memory of lines of text, typed on a screen and sent bouncing across the galaxy to Coruscant. Vital knowledge in transit. An alert to the Jedi Order of an old threat, thought a thousand years extinct...

Obi-Wan turns from the screen. With the sensors shot and the commlink no longer operational, there's no point in staying there any longer. Anything the pirates do, he'll be powerless to stop, and he'd rather spend the time with Qui-Gon.

The growing glow of blue light chases his steps into the hallway.

The first shot impacts the rear of the ship with a gentle crash. A shot to incapacitate, not kill, and Obi-Wan's feet lose hold of the floor at the breakdown of ship's gravity.

The next instant, a second shot _pings _with precisionoff the corner of the craft, simultaneously launching the vessel into unstable head-over-tail spirals and jettisoning it back into Wild Space.

Tossed inside the whirling ship, Obi-Wan is thrown off the walls and the sides again, and again, and again, like an insect caught in a child's jar and shaken. Inside, his body feels cracked and wet; outside, he can't stop himself from being sick-

Grasping at the Force, Obi-Wan slams his feet onto the ceiling of the cockpit and holds himself to it, heaving vomit only to have it splash up in his face at the next spin of the vessel. He can barely breathe through the clog of vomit and blood, and each inhalation comes in whistles, high-pitched and painful - any prior healing undone in the space of seconds. The ship's alarms blare. He feels dangerously light-headed and ill.

Something _shatters_ down the hall.

Nausea and fear roil, horrible like thunder, draining his mind. His hold on the ceiling falters enough that he looses his footing on the next violent rotation of the ship and slams against the navigational controls. Two more rotations and less than a second later, and he's able to cement himself, face-down, to the floor. His cheek presses against the surface. Cold tingles against the pads of his fingertips, and his eyes close. He opens himself to the Force, and he releases his fear. He breathes. Again. Inhale calm, exhale fear. Calm. _A touch of his Master's hands on his shoulder._ Calm. _Qui-Gon's eyes. _ Breathe.

Breathe.

Centered again, Obi-Wan opens his eyes. Drops of blood splatter from his nose, up and down in front of his eyes with each whirl of the vessel. The quivering ship gives off its own red glow of alarm, suffusing everything with red, everywhere. Alarming, as any life-or-death situation should be – but no longer frightening.

The door to Qui-Gon is stuck half-way shut. He peels himself over it, maintaining a constant link of faux-gravity between it, his body, and the Force. It hurts to twist his ribs that way, but he can't break his concentration to smother the worst of the pain. He moans and can barely hear it.

Inside, gelatinous bacta slides across every surface, sticky and wet like congealing blood. The room is smeared with green, and in it, the twisted, limp body of his Master slumps over the cracked and broken remains of the tank, a drunken doll in the rags of a Jedi Master. Obi-Wan staggers to his Master's side in time to grasp him within his own shell of the Force before the man can impale himself on the other side of the bacta tank at the next spin of the ship. Gently, he lifts and lays Qui-Gon on the ground beside him. More blood pours out of the puncture wounds – his hands press, there, quickly, there...Bacta oozes from the man's mouth, out his nose, from his ears.

The worst of it drips from the lightsabre stab wound that put his Master in the tank in the first place. His calm falters at the sight of a piece of plastisteel wedged in the once-cauterized hole. A thick mixture of blood and bacta pulses sluggishly from the wound in time to each slow...slow beat of his Master's heart.

But not dead. Not dead.

The flood of relief is strong enough that were he thinking more clearly, he'd be wary of it. But the sight beneath him is interrupted by a flash of memory, and he's caught off-guard in the remembrance, again, of his Master's body suspended, limp, on one end of a double-sided red blade. He wrenches from the memory and can't find that sense of calm anymore. He holds his Master's body closer to his chest.

The red alarms scream and flash behind his closed eyelids. Irrationally, abruptly, he wants the alarm system _off_-

An unseeing wave of his hand, and the alarm systems all throughout the ship shatter. But for the wet noise of bacta and blood and the methodical _thump, thump _of things ricocheting throughout the vessel at each turn, it's quiet again.

The red lights of alarm flicker, then still. His second of overwhelming distress fades.

With the coaxing sleekness of a young animal, Obi-Wan lays himself along his Master, siphoning healing energy along each point of touch on their bodies, a living blanket of the Force. Before he can lose himself completely in the healing trance, the part of his mind raised since birth for Jedi thoughts considers and dismisses the idea of trying to stabilize the spinning craft with the Force, considers and dismisses possible rationales for the pirates' actions, considers and dismisses their chances of survival. He pretends he can't feel his hands still trembling from his destructive use of the Force.

This, healing this body, this man, this is better. It's a gentling kind of warmth. The Force feels so much better this way.

Soon, Obi-Wan is still and quiet in the healing of his Master.

The ship spins on.

* * *

It takes the insides of the vessel heating to sweltering levels to break Obi-Wan from his trance.

When he does, his uncurling is sluggish and fevered. He pushes himself to his elbows, then his palms, one hand on either side of his Master's body, his legs turned to the side against the floor. His breath comes in pants, and a river of sweat stings its way down his face and drips onto his Master's cloak and chin. His eyes sweep over the man's body, seeking visible confirmation of what his mind already knows.

The wounds are only marginally better. Enough to keep Qui-Gon alive for another span of borrowed time, but after that...

Heat dizzies his focus; his vision shimmers, waves across waves. He cradles his head in his hands and on the soft form of his Master's chest, closing his eyes and grounding himself first in the life beneath him, then in the Unifying Force in order to discern what caused the change in the ship. It's always possible it's just burning up from velocity and destroyed environment controls-

Oh.

His eyes fly open. _This_ is unexpected. He stands on borrowed strength to stagger and slide to the threshold of the cockpit, to stand and stare at the blazing white and red heat encasing the whole of the ship, preventing any kind of view of what's ahead. But somewhere past the flames is-

A planet.

Whirling with a _crack_ of his robe around his ankles, Obi-Wan forgets all thoughts of unbearable heat and redirects everything left coherent in his mind to one goal: surviving the coming crash. The world continues to spin madly under his feet as he scrambles back to the bacta room, leaping over a piece of tank when it slides in collision course with his shins, flinging an airborne vial out of his way with a wave of his hand. The Force fuels his adrenaline; mind and body in heightened awareness, Obi-Wan crouches quickly, holding his hands, palm-down, over Qui-Gon, spreads his fingers wide, and _lifts_. The Jedi floats upwards, completely horizontal, the limbs held still and unmoving down to the eyelids, which don't show even the barest flicker from their position at half-mast...He'll have no more injury to his Master.

Like a mad comet, the ship hurtles onward.

Obi-Wan tugs Qui-Gon behind him on strings of the Force, moving rapidly towards the tail-end of the ship. He stops when he reaches a ceiling hatch, his Padawan braid whipping his neck at the halted momentum. It goes unnoticed. He cranes his head back, looking at the hatch.

From this point on, every action he takes will be dictated by timing. He has to clear the ship _after_ it breaks the atmosphere, so they won't roast alive the second they're outside, but _before_ it impacts. If he succeeds in getting them both out, he has to get away from the ship before it crashes so they aren't caught in the explosion, while also keeping them from falling to their deaths...And all this is assuming the atmosphere is even breathable to begin with.

In short, he can guarantee nothing of what may or may not happen. He'll just have to play it by ear and see how it goes.

Improvise.

The corners of his lips upturn even as his eyes cant downwards to fall upon the slack face of the Jedi.

"Shall this be enough 'living in the moment' to satisfy even you, my Master?"

* * *

"...recessed yesterday after a long and ultimately inconclusive trail, set to reconvene at one o'clock this afternoon. Now, some breaking news; scientists and ufologists alike are abuzz over the strange events of this morning. A large, as-of-yet unidentified object fell from the sky to land in the North Sea, some eighty kilometers off the coast of Grimsby, approximately eight hours ago at 2:13 A.M. Images of the object were caught on multiple satellites and recording systems, but all are obscured heavily by night, making it difficult to pinpoint just what this strange object could be. We have here some exclusive amateur footage caught by an eyewitness...

"...Suggestions have been made as to the object's possible identity, such as a satellite, a piece of space detritus, a meteor, or, of course, a UFO. Scientists maintain that it is most likely a satellite; however, the strange spiraling motion of the object has yet to be explained, encouraging wild speculation about the possibility of an extraterrestrial encounter.

"Upon impact, a tsunami of moderate size spread radially from the site of impact. Fortunately, by the time it struck land, its intensity had waned enough to prevent any serious catastrophe. Several miles worth of light flooding occurred on the coastline and along the bay to the north and south of Grimsby. No casualties or injuries have yet been reported, and none are expected at this time, though property damage estimates are moderate."

"I'll tell you what, Coleen, I can rest easier knowing that everyone got out of that safe and sound. Still, you have to admit, not every day something like this happens. A UFO? That's really something, isn't it? My daughter's a bit of a UFO nut herself."

"Oh, is that so?"

"Mm-hmm. To be able to witness this, caught on footage, even in an amateur video at a distance – it's really something."

"Well, Bernard, it'll certainly fire up many an imagination, to be sure. Investigative teams have already been deployed to search the sea for remains, so hopefully that will shed some light on the situation. We'll have continuing updates on this story throughout the day as we learn more. Now, I'll turn it over to Henry Morgan for the weather. Henry?"

"Thank you, Coleen. As you can see, this December is turning out to be quite the winter wonderland, with light, steady snow continuing to fall all across the country..."

* * *

"Come on boys, hurry now. Molly wants us back in time for dinner, and we've still got to hide the presents-" Dashing down the festively decorated hall, Mr. Weasley spoke distractedly to the two young wizards hurrying in his wake.

Elbowing Harry in the sides, Ron rolled his eyes at his father's back. Harry shrugged, grinning. There was no denying the commands of Mrs. Weasley when she was dead-set on making the holiday season _'a time for generosity of spirit, togetherness of the family, and kindheartedness to all creatures, great and small.'_

Fred and George swore she lifted the phrase from a greeting card. Mrs. Weasley steadfastly denied it, but the flush in her cheeks told otherwise.

"Yeah, Dad, we know," Ron answered, despite the fact that Mr. Weasley barely paid his response any attention, too busy dodging a nurse emerging from the elevator with a squawking, fanged baby trying to gnaw on her arm. As they continued down the hallway, Mr. Weasley glanced around the corner, then slowed and stopped, catching his breath and straightening himself out.

"Right. Well. Their room's just around the corner, boys. Please remember to treat them kindly; the boy doesn't seem to know a speck of English, and you're not to give him a hard time just because he can't understand you."

"Dad, we know," Ron protested, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose Fred and George are the ones I'll have to keep an eye on...Anyway, Ron, I think I'll let you take care of this-" he handed his son his briefcase, in which an afternoon's worth of Christmas shopping was carefully shrunk and tucked away, "-and Harry, if you could carry these-" Harry obligingly took hold of the few larger un-shrinkable parcels, "then I have my wand free to take care of the boy's belongings, and, well, whatever else. I do hope they've come up with a way to bring the father, though I suppose we'll most likely just end up bumping him along behind until we reach the Portkey..."

"What's all this about, anyway?" Harry asked Ron curiously in a sotto voice while Mr. Weasley patted his pockets, muttering and presumably checking for the Portkey. To give Ron some time alone with his family, Harry had stayed at Hogwarts for the first few days of winter break, visiting with Hagrid and taking advantage of the empty Quidditch pitch, mostly. Even though all the Weasleys had said he needed to do no such thing, he insisted, so eventually, they relented. Apparently, this idea had come up in the time while he was gone.

"I dunno, some idea of Mum's," Ron replied, furrowing his brow and then shrugging. "You know how Dad's been coming in here on and off to get testimony from the witch who got bit by the jinxed oven? Turns out she's a friend of Mum's, and of course Mum goes to visit and they get to talking. Told Mum about some program they have here at the hospital where volunteers take the patients home for a few days over the holidays. You can guess where it went from there." He rolled his eyes, Harry nodding.

"So Mum says that her friend says ever since they admitted these two blokes a little over a week ago – the ones we're here to pick up - the younger one's barely moved an inch 'cept to eat and that kind of thing. Let himself be healed, yeah, and slept a lot, but after that – like a statue, mate. Just sits there, always in the same place, always real quiet. Mum's friend tried talking to him and it was like his head was in another place entirely." He scowled in general dissatisfaction.

"...Er," Harry began, trying to find a way to phrase this without sounding insensitive and failing, "That sounds a bit...well, nutty."

"That's what I thought!" Ron agreed vehemently, simultaneously sounding enthusiastic and long-suffering. "But no, Mum says," he pitched his voice higher, "_'the poor dear must be awfully lonely, all by himself at St. Mungo's with his father hurt and him not able to speak a single word of English. Do you know what that's like, Ronald? Nobody should spend Christmas alone in the hospital ward.'_ So she comes up with the bright idea to volunteer with the program and take him home with us," he finished in a grumble. "What are _we _supposed to do with a couple of sick foreign wizards over the hols?"

Harry didn't have an answer for that (nor did he point out that they were currently on the floor for animal bites, not sicknesses) but he had to admit that, whether or not this current spate of goodwill was born from the words of a greeting card or not, he actually thought it was a pretty decent thing Mrs. Weasley was doing.

"Well, it won't be for too long, right? A few days won't hurt." Harry said consolingly. Ron still looked half-heartedly disgruntled, but at that moment, Mr. Weasley turned abruptly around the corner with a wave of his hand for them to follow. Harry suspected they were following the signs pointing to the _Dangerous Dai Llewellyn Ward for Serious Bites; _a moment later, they faced the door inscribed with just that plaque. A nurse was just in the process of shutting the door behind him, and Mr. Weasley pulled the man aside before he could leave.

Harry turned back to Ron. "How did all this get figured out, anyway, if the guy can't speak English?"

"Dunno." Ron shrugged, and opened his mouth to say more when Mr. Weasley came back to them. He motioned the boys closer.

"Now I've just spoken to the nurse, Ron, Harry, and he says the young man's father still has yet to wake; though they can't figure out why, as his body's perfectly healed...So try to be polite about it, yes? That kind of thing is hard on anybody, no matter who they are or where they're from." He eyed them seriously for a moment, then smiled. "So we'll do our best to be hospitable, eh? Give him a proper welcome." He patted each of their shoulders, then turned and opened the door.

The inside of the ward was cramped and rather dingy, with only one window to filter in the evening light. A cascade of shiny, glowing bubbles stringing down from the center of the ceiling gave off soft blue and green fading lights. Apparently, Mrs. Weasley's friend had recovered; all the beds were empty but the farthest one from the door, which had its simple off-white curtains pulled around it for privacy.

"Hello," Mr. Weasley called out cheerfully, walking to the bed. As they neared, the curtains slid around the metal bar, pushed out of the way by a young man.

He was average in height, his dark blond hair cropped short in a rough-looking buzz with a long, thin braid starting behind his right ear and trailing down his shoulderblades. He wore a plain, hooded, heavy-looking brown robe that fell to his feet and covered everything but his head in its well-worn folds. Along the left side of one eye ran a tiny, curious scar, delicately and precisely shaped like what looked like a plant. Harry winced a little in sympathy at seeing the wizard's nose; it had to have been broken at least once, and it didn't look like whoever had fixed it had paid much attention to the job. Age was a more difficult guess; the haircut made him look young, but he carried an unusual air of quiet composure that seemed very much older.

Blue eyes watched their approach from above dark circles and a pale, worn face. Harry could see how one would get the impression something was a little off.

The young man gave the three wizards a small, quiet smile and a bow, his hands tucked in voluminous sleeves, and responded in soft, accented English.

"Hello."

"It's good to see you again, Ben," Mr. Weasley pronounced at a slightly slower rate than normal, enunciating clearly. Ron grimaced, clearly embarrassed for his dad's sake. Then Mr. Weasley pointed at his son, who hastily wiped the expression off his face.

"Ron." Then, a gesture in his direction, and "Harry."

Ben nodded politely to each of them. He gave another of those short bows, this time with a small courtly flourish of his hand directed towards himself. "Ben." Raising, he tilted his head towards the man laying on the bed next to where he stood, a curiously graceful gesture.

"Quinn."

"Er, nice to meet you, Ben. And Mr. Quinn," Harry smiled somewhat awkwardly, feeling like he ought to say something but not sure how to interact with someone who couldn't understand him. Was Quinn a first or a last name?

Ron's stilted follow-up of, "Um, yeah, nice to meet you both" indicated he felt the same way. But Ben merely directed that same smile at them both as if he didn't even notice the awkwardness.

Harry looked at Quinn curiously. An older man, to be sure, but again Harry had trouble pinpointing an exact age – late thirties? Forties? Early fifties? - even after seeing the streaks of silver shooting generously through the long, braided brown hair. The man's face was even paler than Ben's – and sported a similarly crooked nose – but his sleep appeared untroubled, and his chest rose and fell very, very slowly.

He looked up, and found Ben's eyes on him.

"Well, time to get you two out of here," Mr. Weasley said, clapping his hands together and calling Ben's attention his direction. He looked around the room expectantly, saying, "Where are your things, Ben?" and trying to mime with his hands while Harry and Ron traded a glance and shifted in place, still carrying their own loads.

But Ben seemed to pick right up on what Mr. Weasley meant. He bent and pulled a small bundle of clothing out from underneath the bed, setting it on the nightstand on top of a conspicuously large stack of newspapers. Then, he carefully peeled back the covers from Quinn.

Harry shifted his eyes to the side, wondering how this could get any more awkward. The hospital gown, like hospital gowns 'round the world, was thin, papery, short, and really rather see-through. And though Mr. Quinn might be healed, he definitely had some pretty gruesome scarring that no amount of healing could erase. Like craning around to see a fender bender, he couldn't help it when his eyes flickered back once, quickly; but strangely enough, Ben had already pulled a sheet back up halfway, enough to cover the man's waist downward.

Now free to look, Harry found his eyes drawn to the areas of dark scarring all across Quinn's chest and stomach, clearly visible through the gown. He squinted. Most of the scars were ragged, imprecise, and random, but there was one whose contours distinctly shaped a circle, symmetrical and definite. What kind of animal made _that _bite?

Then Ben was walking past his line of sight again, to the nightstand, and picking up one article of clothing, flicking it out of its fold with the kind of casualness that spoke of long habit. Another robe, this one a dark, chocolate brown, also rather tattered in places. Ben settled one knee on the bed, gently lifting the man's torso with one hand and slipping the robe behind him with the other.

"Oh, here, let me help with that," Mr. Weasley offered, pulling out his wand. Ben leaned back a little, looking at Mr. Weasley and obviously uncomprehending of the words. Mr. Weasley made shooing motions to the side.

"Did he lose his wand?" Ron asked. Mr. Weasley met his question with a thoughtful frown and a glance.

"I don't know. It seems as he did, doesn't it."

"He could just be Muggleborn," Harry offered. "I still forget about doing things the wizard way."

"That's certainly also a possibility, Harry," Mr. Weasley acknowledged kindly. Then, he turned back to Ben and repeated more simply, "I can help. Please move."

Ben looked from Quinn to Mr. Weasley and back, then lowered the man as carefully as he'd raised him, shifting aside but not getting off the bed. With a quick flick of his wand, Mr. Weasley propped the man up just as Ben had a moment ago and brought the robe sailing off of the bed to wrap around Quinn's shoulders, tying itself closed in the front. One more flick and Mr. Weasley pulled Quinn the rest of the way out from under the sheet, the robe neatly and modestly covering him up with the motion.

"There, that'll do it." Mr. Weasley smiled at Ben.

He surprised them all by murmuring a quiet, "Thank you."

"Well! You're quite welcome," Mr. Weasley responded, openly pleased at the instance of successful communication. Then he pointed to the clothes and stack of newspapers.

"Are you going to bring those?" Mr. Weasley mimed picking up and taking an object, then pointed at the door. In answer, Ben picked up the stack of clothes, tucking them under his left arm and pointedly ignoring the newspapers. Two smooth strides took him back to stand beside Quinn. He leaned into the bed, the side of his leg pressing against it with a soft creak of bedsprings.

"Don't want the newspapers? All right then. Doubt you could read them anyway, eh, Ben?"

Ben just gave Mr. Weasley that small smile that said he didn't understand what was being said to him.

Mr. Weasley sighed good-naturedly. "Well. I suppose we'll work on that. In any case, I believe we've used up enough time here, boys. Time to be on our way – oh! _Really_ time to be on our way...and that means you, too, Mr. Quinn." He pointed to Quinn with his wand. "_Mobilicorpus_."

The man rose a few inches off the bed. Carefully, Mr. Weasley directed him around the curving metal curtainrod and maneuvered him until he was out of the way of the other beds. He gestured Harry and Ron to precede him from the room, and they moved to the door.

Ben's eyes never left Quinn's floating form.

Harry had his free hand on the doorknob when Ben spoke.

"No."

"Eh?" Mr. Weasley asked in surprise, all three of them turning. Ben stood at to Quinn's left, his right hand splayed atop the man's stomach, but he faced them.

"No," he repeated. "Mr. Weasley." With his left hand, he pointed to the nearest empty bed, then back at Quinn, then waved a hand from Mr. Weasley to the bed.

"You...want me to put him back?" Mr. Weasley's brow crinkled. "Why?"

Ben just shook his head and repeated the gesture.

"Well," Mr. Weasley sighed, looking at his wristwatch, "I can humor you for a moment, I suppose. _Just_ a moment...I told Molly this would be problematic."

"This Christmas is gonna be a bloody _pain_, that's what it's gonna be," Ron muttered under his breath. Harry grimaced sympathetically. Instead of tackling that comment, he commented on Hermione's imminent arrival, the day after Boxing Day.

Ron tried to look displeased at the reminder and failed.

After Quinn was settled back on a bed, Mr. Weasley took a step back, facing Ben and shrugging quizzically.

"Well, I did what you wanted. Now what – oh!"

Quinn gently floated off the bed beneath Ben's palm.

"That's wandless magic!" Ron looked at Ben with something like awe. "Wordless, too!"

"Maybe that's why he's got no wand," Harry suggested, also surprised and impressed by the display. Dumbledore was the only one he'd seen do any wandless magic, ever. He considered. "_Can_ people do completely wandless magic? Like all the time?"

He received no reply, as all three of them paused to watch Ben withdraw his hands back into his sleeves, holding them in front of his chest and walking back over to them with still, calm eyes.

Quinn floated along serenely at his side.

"Nah," Ron scoffed in reply after a moment. "No one can do that. Wandless magic all the time'd be impossible! I can't even get wordless down!" He reddened a little after saying that, as if he hadn't quite meant to. Harry grinned at him, and Ron looked away with a scowl, quickly adding, "Right, Dad? He's probably just showing off."

"Now, Ron, what did I say about speaking badly of our guest when he can't even understand us?" Mr. Weasley chastised mildly, getting over his surprise first and gesturing Harry and Ron into action, leading them to the door.

Ben, apparently satisfied now, followed them without a sound.

"But about the wandless magic – _is_ that possible, Mr. Weasley? To go without a wand all the time?" Harry asked, not able to hide his interest. Something like that could really come in handy when he saw Voldemort next.

_If _he saw Voldemort. Ever since he'd risen again at the end of Harry's fourth year, the Dark wizard had been very quiet – suspiciously so, in fact. Now, Harry had reached the middle of his sixth year, and Voldemort had yet to rear his ugly head.

It was only a matter of time; Harry _knew _he was out there. But until he showed up, all that he and the few others across the country who believed him could do was worry, wait, and be ready.

"No, Harry, it's not," Mr. Weasley said with part of a sympathetic smile. The Weasley family was one such group of believers. "Many extremely talented wizards all throughout history have tried it, and many have become very talented at wordless. Some fooled people into believing they could do wandless by keeping their wand hidden up their sleeve, or elsewhere attached to their body – then, it's just a matter of redirecting the focus of the spell, which is also quite difficult but certainly not wandless...It seems it's just a fact of life that no one can do more than a handful of spells wandless, no matter how good they are. Even somebody like Professor Dumbledore, you know. Ben must have practiced long and hard on this spell, to be as skilled as he is."

Harry nodded, a little disappointed.

On their way to the front desk, Ron kept looking over his shoulder at the pair, then at his father, obviously trying to hold in a question and failing.

"Did we really have to bring the old bloke too, Dad?" Ron finally burst, whispering to Mr. Weasley with a quick, guilty look over his shoulder. Harry had to admit, there was something unsettling about walking along with an unconscious man floating along behind them. The floating dead. He tried to make it a little more casual than Ron had when he, too, looked over his shoulder.

Ben returned their looks with the same small, polite, closed-lipped smile as before, apparently unperturbed by their scrutiny. Harry's eyes drifted downward. Ben was pressed up closely to the other man, his side vertical against Quinn's horizontal. Quinn undulated gently over each rolling stride of Ben's right hip, and the wide sleeves of his robe draped onto Quinn's where their bodies met.

"Of course, Ron." Mr. Weasley replied repressively, just as quietly. "The boy wants his father with him; that's natural. Besides," he added a moment later out the side of his mouth, "Your mother wouldn't hear of it, especially since she was there when I talked...er, mimed the idea out with the boy. Ben clearly wouldn't consent to leave without Mr. Quinn. And since the Healers can't find anything wrong with him other than that he just won't wake, and Ben has demonstrated his ability to see to his father's needs, there's really no reason to keep him here, not if Ben insists on leaving, which he has."

They got into the checkout line behind a couple of witches and a wizard that looked part gnome. "I think," he added and cleared his throat delicately, "I think they might have kicked him out soon, anyway, at least to one of the smaller charity hospitals. Merlin only knows how he's been paying Mungo's."

"Wait – so you mean – how long do you mean they're staying with us?" Ron demanded, facing his father squarely.

"Talk to your mother," Mr. Weasley replied shiftily. Ron groaned; Harry grinned at him sympathetically.

Ben just waited, looking entirely too oblivious and serene.

* * *

Harry woke up to the most delicious smell.

After the requisite few minutes of bleary-eyed blinking and mumbling, he stumbled to Ron's bed and prodded him in the shoulder until they were both awake enough to plod slowly down the stairs.

"It's early," Ron grumbled. "How early is it, anyway? Too early. That's what. Who gets up this early? What's Mum up to? Bet she wants to make a good impression on those two, that's what. Never cooks like this for us–"

At the kitchen, both of them paused at the sight that greeted them.

Set on the counter were three large serving plates generously spread with food. One had small omelets of at least four different varieties arranged in a spiral, another boasted a colorful bounty of sliced fruit set into a delicate geometric design, and the third was stacked with pile of hotcakes, butter drizzling down from the top. The worn, rickety kitchen table had been neatly set, and a stack of teacups rested in the center next to a teapot, presumably full.

And standing at the stove – the _Muggle_ stove, which Harry had never once seen work since he met the Weasleys – with his back towards them, flipping an omelet and dressed in strange, medieval-looking clothes, was Ben.

Ron recovered first. "Excellent!" he enthused, suddenly waking up very quickly indeed. "Should've known it wasn't Mum! Thanks, mate!" he directed towards Ben as he grabbed a plate from the table and made a beeline for the food, spearing an omelet with gusto. His mouth watering, Harry didn't waste time following suit.

While he was deciding which kind of omelet looked best, a spatula suddenly entered his line of vision, depositing a steaming omelet in the empty space created by Ron's choice. Looking up, Harry found Ben watching him and Ron with a smile. Harry grinned back.

"Thanks, Ben. This all looks great!"

Ben inclined his head and waved him towards the rest of the food in reply.

Shortly after Harry and Ron had settled themselves at the table, Fred and George crashed down the stairs in their usual unsubtle way.

"Oi." Fred elbowed George in the ribs. "Told you it wasn't Mum."

"And I never disagreed, now, did I?" George protested mildly. "That was Perce. Oi, Ben!" he called cheerfully. The wizard turned and smiled at the twins. "You're a crazy bloke for doing this of your own free will, but you have the thanks of Fred and George Weasley!"

"You remember he can't understand you, right?" Ron reminded them through a mouthful of hotcake.

"And how's he gonna learn anything if no one talks to him, little brother?" Fred pointed out reasonably. He and George turned to Ben and asked as one, "Right, Ben?"

The young man had paused in his cooking to watch the exchange. Now, at being addressed, he looked from one twin to the other and shrugged, his smile slightly apologetic. Clearly, he wasn't yet able to follow the rapid exchange of words.

He had, however, been introduced to everyone the previous evening and apparently remembered their names. "Fred, George." He inclined his head in a small bow. "Eat."

Fred and George traded amused looks. "Man knows what he's about," Fred commented blithely, "All his priorities in the right places." Then he performed a swooping bow of his own, saying, "As you wish, sir Ben!"

"Don't know _what _that is our good sir Ben is wearing though, looks a bit funny if you ask me-"

The rest of the Weasleys currently in residence filed down soon after, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley appearing last and making a big fuss over the whole affair, though for different reasons.

"Oh, Ben, dear, you didn't have to do all this! Such a wonderful breakfast, and you made it all by hand, too – well, if that's how you like to work, who am I to judge? Still! What a considerate young man!"

"Yes, but look, Molly, he got the stove to work! Tell me, Ben, how'd you manage it-"

Breakfast was a noisy, happy affair, and Harry found himself enjoying it immensely. By the time he was finished, he was very pleasantly full and feeling rather disinclined to excessive motion for the next couple of hours. In a momentary lull in conversation, he caught sight of Ben rising from his spot a few chairs down at the end of the table, between Ginny and Percy. Despite having cooked it all, Ben hadn't originally seemed inclined to sit and eat with them, and even then he'd been quiet throughout the whole meal. Harry figured that was pretty natural, though, when one hadn't a clue what was being said around oneself.

Now, he stood, taking his plate and scooping up Ginny's empty dishes as well.

"Oh, um, you don't have to do the dishes, Ben," Ginny said, waving her hands and pointing to her mother. "Mum'll get those."

Ben turned to Mrs. Weasley.

"That's right. The kitchen shan't be a problem to clean." She patted her fingers and lips dry on a napkin, then withdrew her wand. With an encouraging motion, she got Ben to set the plates back down on the table.

"There, now," she said, whisking her wand and sending the dishes flying to the sink, where the water began to fill itself and a sponge hovered in the air, waiting.

Ben watched the dishes' flight, for a moment looking a little strange. Then, all traces of it gone, he turned back to Mrs. Weasley and dipped his head. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

Mrs. Weasley actually blushed a bit. "What a charming accent that is-"

"Mum!"

"You're quite welcome, Ben," she informed the wizard primly, ignoring her children. Mr. Weasley coughed, looking suspiciously amused.

Ben smiled a little, then turned and left the kitchen, as quiet in his departure as he'd been with his presence.

* * *

His fingertips brush over his Master's neck, the touch of a petal fluttering to the surface of a still, deep pool. Stroke, from beneath the chin to the crest of his collarbone, down once, then again, and again, over the gentle bumps and ridges of his throat. Softly, he induces the swallowing reflex in lax muscles while he tips water into his Master's mouth. Throat bared vulnerable to his Padawan; an image of ancient sacrificial offerings, brutal and primal, flashes through his mind, and he almost has to stop when his hands falter. He has never before held Qui-Gon's life so very fully in his hands. He could drown his Master this way.

Something twists inside, something frighteningly sharp and beautiful and delicate – he'll _never_ harm this man.

Evening settles around them. Obi-Wan lays his Master back down on the bed, setting the pillows aside and arranging him in a familiar pose his unconscious mind will find comforting. Qui-Gon always sleeps so: on his back, without a pillow, hands clasped across his abdomen, as if sleep is merely deep meditation.

Maybe here, now, it is. The Living Force of this planet is nearly indescribable; it has done wonders for his Master. It is that very vibrancy that allows him to realize a truth: had they landed anywhere of lesser potency, Qui-Gon would now be with the Force, instead of here, alive, with him, and soaking in the Force with the unashamed mental rapture of a basking cat in the sun.

Near-death is an exhausting state from which to recover for anyone, but especially so with Jedi. At death, a Jedi's mind reintegrates with the Force. If the death is peaceful, so is the reuniting; if the death is chaotic, the Force's equilibrium is upset and, before complete acceptance, it soothes the spirit into serenity like a mother her child. Having been so close to violent death many times in succession – having been wounded enough that he _would _now be dead were they anywhere else – his Master's mind is confused and untidy, his spirit halfway between death and life. When the Force is at peace inside him once more, Qui-Gon will instinctively know it, and his Master will wake.

For whatever reason, Obi-Wan feels this planet is both gift and sign from the Force. But he can feel no farther, and isn't sure what that is supposed to mean.

Later in the night, he drifts away from his healing trance, brushes a palm against the blankets over his Master's hip, and closes the door behind him without locking it. The people in this house are without the kind of harmful duplicity that would make him guard against such an intrusion of privacy. They are, however, teeming with well-meaning curiosity. He keeps his and his Master's lightsabres clipped safely to his belt in case they should put their natural inquisitiveness into action, and poke around things of his they won't understand.

Obi-Wan draws the hood of his robe over his head. The house is still and quiet and, like his Master, sleeps; no one is awake to note his departure out into the snowy fields beyond. Outside, the night has just passed its darkest point, and he lets the trickle of snowflakes dusting over his robe draw him into a moment of watching. Existing. This planet and its life exist so very strongly. The Living Force is ever vibrant and alive in his mind.

At the crest of early dawn over the snow-covered, rolling hills, Obi-Wan slides into an open-handed kata. The snow adds an element of difficulty, for he keeps himself partially levitated in order to stand upon the hardened snow without cracking its surface – yet the forms flow almost effortlessly. Without hurry or direction, it comes to him that his Master's no longer uncertain recovery is the reason.

That troubles him, because it speaks of an attachment that is perhaps too great.

_There is no emotion, there is peace_.

Yet he cannot find it in himself to deny the attachment any more than the increased intensity of the kata releases it from his system. The Living Force thrums with every move he makes, a sensation both unexpected and invigorating, but also disconcerting. Is this how Qui-Gon always feels? How can he live with it?

The thoughts are a trigger. On his next intake of breath, he sends a query along the bond to his Master, the kind of insistent prodding he has adopted for dealing with Qui-Gon in his healing state. Were he to use this method on an awake, alert Jedi, it would be more than a little rude – like knocking on a door with a sledgehammer. But as it is, his Master can't answer on his own. If the need arises, Obi-Wan will ask forgiveness later.

By his exhale, he knows his Master's state and bodily needs, neither of which are changed or need attending to. That's fine.

In a purely mental way, the Force-enhanced kata is fatiguing; eventually, he tires enough to first slow down, then finish the form altogether, allowing his weight to settle fully in the snow. The leftover buzz in his muscles isn't unpleasant. The lasting uneasiness of his thoughts _is_. He does his best to release his doubts before reentering the house, having no wish to inflict the negative emotions on either his Master or the other inhabitants, all of whom are faintly Force-sensitive.

Another seeming impossibility. How is it that people with only marginal Force-sense can access it so simply, without even being aware of just what they do?

Obi-Wan lets such thoughts drift across his consciousness while he taps the snow off his boots, settles his robe on the back of a chair, and sets about making a breakfast for the family.

* * *

The next week passed in a flurry of Christmas preparation. Mrs. Weasley recruited every able-bodied member of the household – which was to say, everyone except Quinn, whose condition apparently remained unchanged – into cleaning the house, stringing up decorations, enchanting various objects to sing carols, sending out holiday cards, and baking enough sweets to keep them all in permanent stomachaches. Though he seemed quite amiable about helping with anything asked of him, Ben was most often her co-conspirator on that front. He had a deft hand in the kitchen.

Other than that, Harry was too busy and, frankly, having too much of a good time to observe very much about the older wizard. Ben seemed to flit in and out of notice with the ease of a ghost – a proper ghostly ghost, not one like Nearly Headless Nick – and rarely initiated conversation. He ventured outside often, despite the cold, and returned looking no worse for wear at all hours of the day or night – apparently lacking any semblance of a reliable sleep schedule. He must have found or been given a set of children's alphabet and early reader books because Harry occasionally heard him following along with a witch's spelled-in voice, sounding out words and simple sentences from within the room he shared with Mr. Quinn. He spent a good deal of his time in that room.

Harry could tell it worried Mrs. and Mr. Weasley a little. He heard them whispering things like "not healthy behavior for a young man his age" and "draw him out of his shell," but neither seemed certain of how to go about doing so.

Breakfast, in fact, turned out to be "socialize with Ben" time, as it was the only fixed hour and location he seemed to keep. Each morning without fail, he made breakfast for the entire family – less elaborate than the first, but still warm and really pretty good despite the ungodly earliness – and so Mr. and Mrs. Weasley encouraged their children to speak to him then. Considering Ben had acquired quite a few brownie points with his daily breakfasts, no one minded making overtures too terribly. Deciding whether or not it made any difference was another matter entirely; Ben was polite and friendly, if somewhat distant, no matter what they said or did.

Harry wondered. Once or twice, he'd seen Ben with a look on his face that said he was miles and miles away from any of them.

Soon enough, it was Christmas Eve. Hermione's arrival the day previous had been a pleasant surprise for all; she and her parents had decided to celebrate Christmas early, and while they flew across the pond to visit relatives in Georgia for the actual day, Hermione had chosen to come to the Burrow.

It surprised only Ron when she leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek after saying so. They bore the ensuing teasing valiantly.

So, with Sirius and Lupin due to arrive that afternoon and Charlie, Bill, and – despite the initial misgivings of the other females of the household – Fleur already settled in, it looked to be one of the largest and merriest Christmas gatherings at the Burrow on record.

* * *

The vision lasts until his Master's body ignites.

It's only then that Obi-Wan breaks from _the Unifying Force _his sleep, heart rate elevated, breathing quick and shallow, eyes wide in the muted red glow of evening cast between the gaps of the blinds. Bars of light and shadow stripe the contours of his face to violet and pale sandstone.

He looks to his Master, sees him lying still – _the still of the dead – _and in the space between fear and action, clambers onto the bed, bracing his knees on either side of his Master's thighs, laying unsteady fingers against his Master's neck.

There's a pulse there, calm and deep and steady. He knew it would be there. He knew.

But the irrational urge to check again and again and again remains. Obi-Wan swallows heavily. As slowly as that heart beats under the rough tips of his fingers, so, too, does Obi-Wan lean back from his Master, unwinding the compulsion that seized him, releasing it to the Force.

He makes himself get up off the bed. Settling in lotus on the floor, his eyes close and his breathing deepens. A vision, given to him by the Unifying Force, or just a product of his own fear?

At least he has one answer.

There is no more 'perhaps' about his attachment being too great.

* * *

"Oh, I almost forgot! I suppose it's time we add our contributions to the tree, eh, Moony?" Sirius grinned toothily, elbowing Lupin in the side and nearly making him spill his mug of peppermint eggnog.

Lupin righted himself with a half-hearted glare, then ruined the effect by smiling. "I suppose it is."

"Righto!" Sirius slapped his palms to his thighs, then whipped out his wand with a theatrical flourish that produced both giggles and groans. He winked. "_Accio_ large mysterious duffel bag of presents!"

While they waited for the presents to arrive – Sirius and Lupin were staying in makeshift housing in the cleared-out backyard storage shed – Sirius informed the group at large, "I'll have you know I've had these presents carefully tucked away for _months_ now. Unlike certain others." He gave a series of coughs that sounded suspiciously like _Charlie, Fred, George._

Charlie grinned, unashamed. "I don't deny it."

"Well, you might not, but we had ours in time, didn't we, Fred?" George protested.

"'Course we did, George! Modifications just take a wee bit extra-"

"Boys," Mrs. Weasley admonished warningly, "There had better not be anything exploding, or smelly, or – or _alive-"_

Fred and George adopted scandalized expressions. "Oh no, Mum, we'd _never_ do _anything_ to Perce-"

"Hey, Ben," Ginny interrupted Percy's shrill spluttering cheerfully. She waved in the direction of the staircase, and with a ripple of motion, the others turned to follow her gaze.

Ben took the last step down the stairs, then stood at its foot and gave a small bow. "Good evening, Ginny."

"Why don't you come on over for a bit?" Charlie gave a friendly wave. "Yes, please join us," Percy added primly.

Fleur smiled prettily at Ben. "And oo iz ziz 'andsome young man?"

"Fleur, meet Ben," Bill introduced. "Ben, this is Fleur."

Ben bowed.

"Ben, is it?" Lupin asked while the young wizard approached the living room obligingly. He stood, smiling pleasantly and extending a hand. "I don't believe we've met. Remus Lupin."

Ben shook the hand. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lupin."

Lupin grimaced and shook his head. "Oh, no need to be so formal. Remus is fine. Mr. Lupin makes me sound too old." Ben's brow furrowed a little.

"Ben and his father are visiting from St. Mungo's for the holiday," Mr. Weasley stepped in to explain. "And he's just learning English, so it's best to use simple sentences around him for now."

Lupin looked back to Ben with a kind expression. "Is that so? Well. Please call me Remus, Ben. It's nice to meet you."

Ben smiled and inclined his head. "It is nice to meet you, Remus." He looked to Sirius, who grinned widely in eggnog-enhanced welcome.

"And I'm Sirius Bl-"

Sirius broke off abruptly. He looked around.

"Say, I suppose it's a little late to be asking this, but, um, does he know? About me."

From the silence and sudden looks of guilty realization, it was clear that everyone had forgotten Sirius's status of escaped fugitive. After all, the truth of the matter was old news to all of them.

But what did Ben see when he looked at Sirius? Harry watched him carefully – and wasn't the only one doing so – but he only seemed politely confused, and maybe a little concerned. Certainly not like someone who just recognized a wanted "murderer."

"...I guess that's a no," Sirius concluded with strained cheerfulness. "Too late now, I suppose. The name's Sirius Black, and I've got an Obliviation spell right here if you feel you need it, Ben. In fact, it might not hurt anyway-"

"Sirius!"

"I don't think you need to, Sirius," Harry said quickly, jumping to his feet and trying to grab onto his godfather's arm.

"No, just let me do this. I'll just get rid of the name, and scramble the face, and then wear a glamour the rest of the visit-"

"Sirius, don't!"

"_Sirius!_"

"Trust me, Harry, Moony, I'm the one on the run and I know what's best – _Obliviate!_"

Harry's wasn't the only cry of dismay as the spell left Sirius's wand. "Sirius," Harry heard Lupin say, his tone disappointed. Bill frowned and exchanged a look with Charlie.

"It _is _illegal to just go around Obliviating whomever you feel like, you know!" Hermione exclaimed disapprovingly, sounding a little shrill. Ron looked like he was caught between defending Sirius and agreeing with her. Percy appeared properly scandalized. Ginny, on the other hand, watched Ben; Harry followed her gaze.

Ben did not have the glazed look of someone recently Obliviated.

"I don't think that was really necessary, Sirius," Mr. Weasley added, while Mrs. Weasley took a much more direct route, striding over to the wizard in an outraged huff, clearly working up to the beginnings of a tirade. His face grimly determined, Sirius ignored them all, watching Ben unyieldingly.

Then Sirius's expression changed drastically.

"What the-"

The magic had impacted Ben; they'd all seen it. But now, impossibly, little rivulets of the spell trickled out from around his head, twisting and writhing like the hair of Medusa before fading away.

And for the first time since they'd met him-

-they caught Ben's gaze, and received no pleasant smile in return.


	2. faraway

-two-  
_-faraway-_

"Sirius Black."

Sirius face was a portrait of open disbelief. "Lower your wand already, for God's sake," Lupin hissed; slowly, Sirius did.

"Sirius Black," Ben repeated again into the sudden quiet. "You..." he frowned, his brow furrowing slightly. A brief expression of frustration crossed his face and was gone. "No," he finally said, pointing at the wand still clasped loosely in Sirius's hand, then towards his own head.

"No."

"No, of course he won't do it again, Ben," Mrs. Weasley hastened to assure him, casting a withering look in Sirius's direction.

Ben briefly glanced at her, expression unchanged.

"Apologize," Mrs. Weasley ordered. Sirius couldn't seem to make up his mind on who he wanted to talk to; his gaze flickered back and forth between Ben and Mrs. Weasley. He didn't look too apologetic.

"Er, yes, but-" and Sirius broke off. Because for no reason any of them could see, Ben's expression slowly, inexplicably, cleared.

"Um...Ben?"

Unbelievably, the young wizard met Harry's gaze as calmly as if it was just another day at the breakfast table, then turned to Sirius.

"You, Mr. Black, are the mouse."

Whatever any of them were expecting, that wasn't it. Sirius gaped; once he had recovered from the sheer absurdity of the statement, he managed to give Ben a look of pure consternation.

"_What?_"

Fred and George murmured something in the background, then snickered; Charlie leaned over to smack them each on the shoulder. Mr. Weasley and Lupin exchanged a perplexed look, and Fleur whispered something in Bill's ear. Ben gave no indication of having noticed any of it.

"You are the mouse," he repeated, watching Sirius expectantly.

"What? What're you trying to say? I don't even know if I should be insulted or not-" He turned to Lupin, whining beseechingly, "Moony." Lupin just shrugged, raising his brows and shaking his head.

"Maybe you should just agree," Harry whispered.

"Right. Yes," Sirius whispered back heatedly. "Nobody told me he was a nutter." Then, louder, "Okay, Ben. I'm a mouse."

Ben nodded in acceptance, then prompted, "And I am the cat?"

Sirius sighed. "Sure, why not. You're a cat-"

"No." Ben replied meaningfully. "Not the cat." Sirius traded an utterly lost look with Harry. He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, what more do you want-"

"You are the mouse. I am the cat? No. I am not." He waited expectantly. When Sirius just stared at him, finally shrugging and shaking his head, Ben didn't appear to mind. He gestured towards Sirius.

"You, Mr. Black, are the cat. Am I the dog?"

Sirius threw up his hands. "I thought I was the mouse-"

"Wait," Hermione interrupted. "Wait." She stood and pushed her way between Mrs. Weasley and Ben, watching the wizard intently.

"Hermione?" Ron asked in a whisper. She just shook her head and faced Ben squarely. He gave her his attention calmly.

"Sirius is the cat. You are not the dog."

Ben nodded marginally, a prompting gesture.

"Sirius is the mouse. You are not the cat," Hermione continued, watching carefully for signs of approval. When Ben nodded once more, Hermione seemed to gain courage.

"Sirius is the rabbit. You are not the dog. Sirius is the bird. You are not the cat."

"Yes." Ben inclined his head, a small smile on his lips. Hermione beamed.

"I thought so!"

"Well? Care to enlighten the rest of us?" Sirius asked mildly, an eyebrow twitching.

"Oh, it's really just a simple metaphor," Hermione grinned, turning around to face the gathered clan of Weasleys and company. "He's trying to tell us – well, mostly you, Sirius – that he's not a threat. That you don't need to Obliviate him-" Mrs. Weasley leveled a stern look Sirius's direction, "-because he means you no harm. You see? If you're a bird, he's not the cat that's going to jump out and eat you, and if you're a cat, he's not the dog that'll chase you up a tree."

"So he calls me all the wimpy animals," Sirius muttered quietly, prompting a snort of laughter from Harry, but Hermione picked up on their exchange and shook her head seriously. "No, it's not like that at all. He may have been naming you mostly as traditional prey animals, but I think the emphasis was more on him not being the predator." She paused to look over her shoulder.

"Right, Ben?"

The young wizard seemed faintly amused. Harry doubted he'd understood the majority of her explanation, but he inclined his head to her obvious query nonetheless.

"Still the brightest witch of her age," Remus remarked. Hermione tried not to look too pleased.

"Of course," Hermione added modestly, "It still begs the question of whether or not he actually knows who Sirius is."

"I doubt he does," Harry surmised thoughtfully. "If Ben really thought he was Sirius Black, Azkaban escapee, what reason would he have to be so forgiving? It's not like the public knows the whole story."

"And don't I know it," Sirius muttered. Lupin frowned, and Harry shot his godfather a look; catching his eye, Sirius just shrugged and smiled brightly.

"Well," he said, pocketing his wand and rubbing his hands together. "Now that that's all figured out, no hard feelings, eh, Ben? What d'you say? Oh, wait, you can't understand that, can you..."

"Try 'I apologize,' Sirius," Lupin instructed blandly.

"Oh. Right. Ben." Sirius faced the wizard. "It's true I was worried, _and _I think I have some cause to be cautious – but a real man admits it when he's been an ass. I apologize."

Ben shook his head, the hint of a smile still on his lips. Sirius frowned. "No, really, Ben. I _do_ apologize."

Ben started to shake his head again, then let out a small sigh and inclined his head in acceptance. In his quiet voice and accent, he murmured, "Apology accepted." Then, straightening, he remarked, "I have need of the language." A frown rested on his lips.

"Do not worry, Monsieur Ben," Fleur called encouragingly. "Eet will come."

Ben glanced at her, and in the face of her confidence, his frown receded. He backed a few steps, bowed slightly, and looked up, meeting their eyes, that thin little braid dangling lightly over his shoulder. He gestured to the entryway.

"Heading out?" Mr. Weasley supplied with a wave towards Ben's cloak, which had gained a peg of its own among the others. Ben followed the gesture with his eyes and nodded.

Mrs. Weasley smiled kindly. "Have a good time, dear, and don't catch frostbite." Ben acknowledged her and the others' calls of goodbye with another small bow, then slung his robe around his shoulders, drew it together in the front, lifted the hood, opened the door and tucked his hands in his sleeves. A rush of cold air and snowflakes flickered through the cheery red and green candles.

A second later, Sirius's duffel bag skimmed neatly down the stairs. "Well, about time!" Sirius exclaimed.

"You mean, it was hidden-"

"-upstairs, all this time?" Fred and George asked, incredulous. Sirius smirked.

"Up in the attic, hidden under quite a few things – but yes. Here." The twins pouted.

"If it was only upstairs, though," Hermione commented with a thoughtful frown, "should it really have taken all this time to get down here?" Sirius shrugged.

Lupin, however, was looking at Ben's retreating form, as was Hermione. Harry turned in time to see the sliver of gray night between the doorframe and wall nearly disappear when Hermione suddenly called out.

"Ben, wait!"

The door's progress halted, then regressed. Ben inserted his body halfway in and halfway out, his hand on the doorknob, all but a section of his chin and lips obscured in the shadows of the robe. It was a little eerie.

"Did you do this?"

Ben's shoulders raised and fell minutely. The others in the room watched the exchange curiously.

Ron looked at her like she was crazy. "Hermione, what-?" She glanced at him quickly and whispered, "If he could stop Obliviate, you don't think he could stop Accio, too?"

"Yeah, but why does it matter-"

"I'm curious." She waved him off impatiently.

"You are not the cat," she called instead. "You are not the dog. You are...?"

The lips curved into a smile. Small – polite.

And the door closed.

* * *

When its feels all the wizardhands sleeping – really asleep, safe asleep – the creature stirs cautiously inside its hidey-hole. Cackles a little to itself; such a good hidey-hole. Nice and warm and dark for so long. And hidden. Hidden is good.

Was good! Because the nest had moved. Bump! Out of its warm little dark place, and the creature had stayed, cowering, inside its nest while it spun, then stopped. Then slid, and stopped. That's when the wizardhands came, and it had to creep back into the very recesses of its dark spot while the wizardhands got closer and closer. Very close. The creature had had to squeeze into such a small form, and the light hurt, and that made it very very tired. But it survived. And now it's hungry.

A gray, boneless, formless tentacle wiggles and flexes in the cold air.

It smells...a meal. A meal! Close. Another meal! Many, many possible meals are all around it...the creature shudders. It already tastes those meals. And coming closer!...there's a wizardhands that could be a very very very very big meal indeed.

The creature blindly wriggles out of its nest and settles in to the hunt.

* * *

The world is very still at this time of day. He suits it.

Rays of early dawn seep warmly into the darkness of his robe, so he allows that much more of the natural winter chill to affect his body. Hands tucked into wide sleeves, he paces quietly past the chicken coop, quietly past the storage shed and its deeply sleeping occupants, pausing at the threshold of the back door of the main house to stand once more and face the sun, pulling his hood back with a faint _skssh _of fabric. He closes his eyes and lets its fire touch his skin, the backs of his eyelids reddening under the light.

The Living Force is a faint hum in the background of his mind. It always is, now.

At his Master's side, Obi-Wan lowers himself to his knees. His bare feet press against the soft comfort of the bed, while his legs rest parallel against the side of Qui-Gon's chest, his body oriented towards his Master's face, as if, were he to suddenly awake, Obi-Wan could meet his eyes during those first moments of awareness.

His Master isn't awake, not yet. But each day brings that moment closer, the Force stabilizing inside Qui-Gon psyche like the last ripples fading from a pond. Obi-Wan can wait until the pond is smooth again. He places a palm against the light coffee-colored tunics Qui-Gon favors, on the right side, where his heart is. The hospital gown is long gone. His other palm follows the twisting path of scar tissue, from the lightsabre wound on his left to the puncture marks on his stomach given by the broken bacta tank. Then back again, back up Qui-Gon's abdomen to his heart. Mapping the paths, with his hands, with his mind, and the world fades.

He beckons. Like an eager child, the Living Force instantly answers his call – too strongly, too much, and he lets the connection fade and dim before it can do harm to his Master's just as eagerly accepting spirit. Soothingly, he spreads his mind over his Master's, releasing patience where he finds the sparks of passion ignited by even that barest touch of the Living Force.

Then reaches again, but with a quiet crook of his finger and no more. This time, the Force is gentler. Gradually, he falls deeper into the trance, feeling serene and unworried, afloat on currents greater than those of his own limited existence.

And his Master's life with quiet joy welcomes all he has to offer...

* * *

...surface...the surface, and beyond it...Obi-Wan breaks the surface of the trance, afloat in a pool of the most deepness, vibrancy, stillness...The Force recedes to the back of his mind once again. Adrift but not lost, Obi-Wan unfolds, stretches, and unquestioningly follows gentle urges to lay down against his Master's side, forearm to forearm and hands clasped, chest to belly, until his spirit, too, feels exquisitely placed in the soft meld of their bodies. His fingers find his Master's palm and stroke it, slowly, with just the tips, across the fortune-teller's lifeline. His head rests on his Master's heart.

Qui-Gon's spirit asks for his warmth, and he gives, and he gives, and he gives.

* * *

The vision comes-

He wakes.

* * *

Cooking is soothing. Mundane tasks are good for the Padawan, the Masters say. A way to keep the blooming Jedi aware of their own humility. To teach respect. To teach restraint. To remind. A Padawan serves the Master; the Master serves the Padawan; and the Jedi serve the Force.

Obi-Wan likes cooking. It is and has always been his task for his Master. Once, when he was feeling unusually indulgent of his own silliness, he tried to picture a young Qui-Gon, a Padawan Qui-Gon, fussing about an antique kitchen for his own Master. The kind of kitchen with an actual stove, and an oven, and a sink and cupboards – the kind at this house, and the kind his Master keeps in their quarters to satisfy this particular quirk of Obi-Wan's. Qui-Gon wouldn't fuss so as he went from task to task, he would glide – but maybe that graceful tallness of his would have been gangly and awkward at that age, or perhaps an ingredient might distract him – some plant or another, calling to him with the Living Force –

As always, the young, faceless, indistinct Qui-Gon in his thoughts doesn't last long, not with the real, alive, unmistakable force that is his Master always present in his mind, even when unconscious in recovery. Instead of vague possibilities, he remembers quiet evenings in their quarters on Coruscant, the sharing of warm tea in the cool sterility of a transport, the discovery of a rare flower on a remote wetlands planet. The brush of Qui-Gon's fingertips on the nape of his neck when he introduces him to one foreign dignitary or another:

_This is my Padawan._

Obi-Wan smiles.

He lets the warm thoughts drift away naturally, at their own languid pace. Absently, he sets aside a time later in the day in which to meditate to clear away some of this recent self-indulgence. First that nestling behavior on the bed, now this overly fond reminiscing; it shouldn't be allowed to linger. Too close to love, and love has no place in a Jedi.

When the cowering, hungry creature flitting around behind him in frantic indecision finally comes out to face him, Obi-Wan puts down his cooking knife and unhurriedly turns around to deal with it.

Then steps back against the counter, into the handle of the skillet, knocking it to the floor.

He knows those flames.

* * *

It was really amazing, Harry's sleep-softened mind mused, how many different flavors there were to wake up to. Luxuriously, he squirmed, stretched. Warm covers...Christmas, he realized with a feeling of vast comfort, it was Christmas at the Burrow and he was at the Burrow. And down in the kitchen, there was breakfast cooking because Ben always cooked breakfast...he wasn't like Harry who always hated cooking, ever since the Dursleys made him do it for them, no, he really didn't like it...maybe that's why he always did poorly in Potions...Ben would...probably do better...

Harry jolted awake. That was no food smell.

That was smoke. That was-

"Fire!"

Throwing himself out of the bed, he ignored Ron's sleepy, alarmed, "What?" and grabbed his wand from under his pillow, running to the door, out it, down the stairs. He heard footsteps pattering behind him, heard Ron's call of, "Harry, wait!" and didn't bother yelling back. He hit the base of the stairs at a run and fairly flew into the kitchen.

The heat struck him first; the sheer size of the flames, second; then, finally, the realization that it was confined to one, single, blazing spot -

- that of a body, lit on fire.

"What in bloody hell-!" Socks slipping on the kitchen tile, Ron careened to a stop beside him, mouth open and staring.

Stretching from the stacked kindling all the way to the ceiling, the flames writhed and twisted in great red waves atop a chest-height altar of some dark material. The fire roared and snapped and crackled, casting writhing shadows across the ordinary kitchen landscape, turning it foreign and hellish. Harry could feel drops of sweat trickling down the back of his neck and under his pajamas; but while the suffocating heat was bad, the smell of burning flesh was worse.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," Ron said weakly beside him. He drew his shirt collar over his mouth and nose with a moan. "That's – that's a _body_, Harry! What the hell is going on? A _body! _On _fire! In our kitchen!"_

Harry couldn't reply; he was too busy stifling his own gag reflex of his own. But when his initial shock cleared, he realized there was something strange about the fire, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on...

His eyes trailed upwards to where the flames licked the ceiling. There was plenty of smoke from the flames, and sparks snapped frequently from the burning wood – but for all its malice, the fire left no damage...on anything but the slowly burning body.

"I don't think it's real," Harry said suddenly.

"I think you're right," said a voice behind him. Harry glanced over his shoulder – though only Bill, Charlie, and Hermione stood at the entrance to the kitchen next to him and Ron, he could hear voices and enough footsteps drifting from upstairs to indicate that nearly, if not all, of the household had woken by this point. Bill was the one who had spoken.

He glanced down at Harry, then back at the flames. "Still – _Aguamenti_!"

The rush of water jetted from his wand and hit the flames with a hiss of steam, dampening them for only a second. But a second was enough to catch a glimpse of the body underneath the surging flames – a longish figure with charred, blackened robes that, even crisped, were somehow awfully familiar–

"Say," Harry said abruptly, his voice muffled through his shirt, "is that Mr. Quinn?"

As if the words were a trigger, a swift, odd uneasiness fell over the watchers. No one answered.

Quinn, after all, had been very hurt, very recently.

And that Ben had never volunteered anything substantial concerning his condition – before assumed to be a simple matter of privacy – now seemed darkly portentous.

"...I don't like this," Charlie finally murmured. "Ron, Ben usually cooks here in the morning, doesn't he."

"Yeah," Ron answered, swallowing thickly against the smell. Charlie nodded, looking a little green himself. "Alright," he said quietly, "Hermione, Harry, keep everyone else upstairs for now and see if Ben's up there, though I doubt...Ron, go tell Mum and Dad that we think this is-" he broke off. "Did you see that?" Then, louder, "Bill?"

Bill had crept to the side, a little farther away. He nodded at his brother. "Yeah, I saw it."

"Saw what?" Harry asked, having glanced up the stairs to where Ginny, Fred, and George crouched, clearly listening to everything going on.

"The altar – for a second, it morphed or something," Charlie replied distractedly. "When Bill got close..." And his eyes widened in sudden understanding.

But Hermione beat him to the punch. "Then that's not a pyre, that's a-"

"Boggart," Harry finished grimly, catching on. He raised his wand. "_Riddi_-"

"Let me, Harry," Charlie interrupted, stopping him with a raised palm.

"Wh-"

"Underage," he reminded. "_Riddikulus_!"

As Charlie's voice rang out, a jet of yellow light left his wand and struck the boggart with a jolt and flash of sparks. A second later, Bill launched a Riddikulus of his own. The boggart fought back – but the flames abruptly gave out with one last large _whoosh, _leaving_, _for a horrible moment, only the gruesome half-burned corpse, clearly visible atop the altar.

"Oh my-" Hermione whispered, sounding sick, then altar and body both twisted like a rag being wrung – and flashed out of existence with a final, loud _pop!_

A steaming gray pile of ash lay on the floor, and Ben stood on the other side.

"Hey Ben!" Bill called out, and, being closest, strode over to touch his shoulder. "Ben. You alright?"

Ben didn't respond. He faced the empty spot where the boggart had been, a strange, fey look upon his face and something unearthly in his eyes. His hands hung limply by his sides; there was no sign he even felt Bill's touch upon his arm or noticed when the others came closer.

"Ben," Bill tried again. "It was just a boggart, Ben. It wasn't real. They hide in closets and attics all the time, I'm sure you've seen one before..." He paused, frowning uncomfortably, concerned and somewhat doubtful. "Can you hear me? Snap out of it." He waved a hand in his face, but Ben didn't even blink.

"What if he doesn't know what a boggart is?" Fred asked sharply. He and the rest of the Weasleys had emerged from upstairs, treading quietly and speaking softly like a gathering of strangers entering a morgue. Fleur quietly took care of the boggart mess; Percy cast one disquieted look Ben's way and went to help her.

"He's got to know. It's basic third year subject matter, and he's certainly old enough to have graduated," Hermione said uncertainly.

"Does that look like someone who knows what he saw wasn't real?" George raised his brows pointedly.

"Anyone can be surprised by a boggart," Ginny said in Ben's defense, but she, too, kept darting glances the wizard's way in mixed sympathy and repressed curiosity.

"Here, now, back away. Don't crowd him so." Mr. Weasley made shooing motions, and reluctantly, they all shuffled backwards – except Bill, who remained at Ben's side, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who approached the wizard carefully, as if he were a frightened, feral animal.

And it was like a switch had been flipped; between one moment and the next, all traces of that otherworldly quality faded from Ben's expression; with customary self-possession, he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his tunic, simultaneously nodding in polite thanks to Bill while deftly stepping out of the hand upon his shoulder.

"I apologize," he enunciated clearly into the silence and bowed once each to Bill and Charlie.

"Thank you for your assistance. It was appreciated."

Then, incredibly, he turned away from all of them, picked up a skillet from the floor, set it in the sink, turned a knob on the stove to an 'off' setting, and, without further ado, began to methodically pluck half-raw strips of bacon from the tiling without even the slightest hint that, only moments before, he'd been faced with what had to be his greatest fear.

* * *

Ben didn't stick around after the boggart fiasco.

Shortly after whisking the dirtied bacon away from his questing fingertips, Mrs. Weasley had proceeded to insert herself between Ben and the refrigerator when it appeared he intended to carry on making breakfast, "Like a house-elf!" she'd finally exclaimed, sounding scandalized and hustling him away from the appliance mostly, Harry decided, because he allowed himself to be hustled. It seemed that task was the only thing keeping him in the house; while Mrs. Weasley and Hermione got into a bit of a tiff over her use of the infamous S.P.E.W. buzzword, Ben politely rebuffed anyone else's attempts at keeping him inside, and left.

* * *

He stands outside and watches the snow fall.

His shame is deeply rooted and multi-faceted, and his mind peels back each layer with the steady acceptance that unflinching self-examination is the first step to cleansing – and yet, the more he draws back the blinds from his center, the tighter the shame clings.

His Master, after all, is only a single humanoid, one instance of mortal flesh among so very, very many. Should a funeral pyre one day be his, Obi-Wan would ensure his sending was peaceful, and, as Jedi, go on. But as a man – the vision tells him that as a man, he will not go on. His crippling will be for life, and his passing through humanity marked with a pervasive sense of finality and profound sadness from which, softly, life and the Living Force curl away.

Even now, tendrils of this gentle devastation cleave to his presence like the veins of a second skin. That his strength of mind was fractured enough for a simple-minded creature, even one evolved and streamlined to the pursuit of fear, to draw forth images of his vision, to distort and warp them into something graphically violent in which to flaunt his gnawing anxiety like a grotesque banner – that, leaves him shaken. Rarely has his control over his own mind been so wavering, not since before his willing acquiescence as a young boy to a life devoted to the Force.

And his arrogance! Ah, his arrogance, that he waited for the creature to attack on its own time, and he, untroubled by its seething hunger, certain he could deal with it –

He could blame his faltering on any number of things – the vision, recent events, his feelings generated by either of them – but the true genesis of it lies within this: that on his own, he cannot strip the away the muted, shattering desperation extracted, mutated, and left behind by the dual phantoms of vision and creature; but when he relents and seeks out the place in his mind where Qui-Gon alone can touch, is touching, _will always touch, _the unbinding of vision and present is possible, and doable, and it melts the snowflakes around him when he lets it go.

He stands outside and can't entirely break free from that which gestates inside.

* * *

This thing he does before he returns; under the cover of some pines, he pulls back a sleeve, forms an image in his mind and touches his fingertips to his forearm, touches the Force, destroys a few layers of skin, then builds them back up, quickly, leaving the initial wound buried below. And on the surface, spirals and edges, a stylized image of fire burned into his skin, threaded into the other designs like a weaver at the loom.

This way he won't forget. This way, as he's done ever since torture in a sensory deprivation cell – this way, he keeps himself sane. Qui-Gon has his way, too, because Qui-Gon was there, and Qui-Gon understands.

But this way, this way is his.

* * *

There was some debate about whether or not anyone should go looking for Ben. Sirius not-quite-jokingly offered to sniff him out – it was clear he felt some responsibility for inadvertently housing the boggart in his duffel bag – but after some mutual shifting and glance exchanging (and a quick guilty peek in Ben's room to make sure Mr. Quinn was, in fact, still alive), the subject was dropped, and they carried on with their Christmas, tacitly acknowledging among themselves that gift-giving and holiday dinner could wait until his return.

Harry and the rest spent the hours happily, eating and talking and occasionally roughhousing out in the snow, thoughts of Ben's whereabouts pushed aside easily since, as they all admitted, Ben habitually disappeared but just as reliably, eventually, turned back up.

They came across his tracks, once, long-strided and treading evenly out into the distance. Harry wondered where he went, those times he left.

Warming by the fire with hot cocoa and eggnog spread liberally to all, it was evening when Ben returned, his silent presence only noted by the chill of the back door's opening. He joined them for a scrumptious Christmas dinner that left Harry bursting at the seams; then, they all gathered 'round the tree, handing out gifts and thank-yous and general good feeling.

The only hitch came when Hermione, who'd ended up sitting closest to Ben, tried to give him his first gift: a soft, amorphously shaped package from Mrs. Weasley that Harry could easily guess the contents of – Ron's embarrassed groan only confirmed it.

"I thank you, but I can't," Ben said, smiling, perhaps to take the sting out of the refusal. "I apologize," he added, and courteously placed the package back in Hermione's hands.

"Why not?" she asked with a puzzled frown and a glance in Mrs. Weasley's direction, who, luckily, hadn't cottoned on to the conversation yet.

"I-" his face took on an inward-searching look. "My...group do not take gifts."

"Does not," Hermione corrected automatically, then winced a little. "Oh, I didn't mean to nitpick."

Ben, Harry reckoned, probably didn't know what nitpick meant, but gracefully chose not to point that out. Instead, he smiled, without reprimand, and repeated, "My group does not take gifts. Thank you, Hermione, to help my English."

Hermione took him to heart. "For helping my English."

"For helping my English," he repeated graciously.

"That's it," she beamed, then returned attention to the problem at hand. "So what group are you in that can't accept gifts? I only ask," she hastened to add, obviously thinking she might have come across as rude, "because Mrs. Weasley made this gift by hand. She'll be disappointed – that means sad – that you can't take it, is all."

Contemplatively, Ben looked at her, then at Mrs. Weasley, then at the small stack of presents under the tree also with his name on them. Turning back to Hermione, he held out his hands for the gift; surprised and hesitant about offending his culture, Hermione nonetheless gave it to him when he insisted. For the rest of the evening, Ben unwrapped it, then, without a fuss, all the others – except those intended for Quinn, which he set aside, unopened – making sure to thank the giver after each gift. For a little while, he even wore the sweater, flashing for a moment forearms wrapped in artful, vine-like tattoos before the cozy green knit was tugged into place.

And Hermione's earlier question went unanswered, unnoticed, and forgotten.

* * *

The moon crests the stark, cold landscape in brilliant white splashes of light, patches of ground reaching illumination when the thick crescent tops first that hill, then the next, then spills over the next, until the rays touch upon a solitary figure cradled in the dip between hills. In lotus, like a flower he, too, opens to the twilight, flourishes in it, rises as it rises.

When he stands, it is to tuck his hands away and tip his head back to the moon, gently releasing it as the focus of his meditation. His mental wanderings of this evening led him down the same path as those of the day before, and the day before, and the day before; yet he can find no satisfactory answers.

His frustrations have always been his own matter. As a child, he rarely sought the crèche-mothers for soothing. As an adult, he finds resolution most often through solitude. But on the occasion that he cannot come to a solution on his own, his traditional mode of recourse is, in this case, almost as troubling as the problem itself.

For how can he speak to his Master about...this?

That he might ask another only peripherally crosses his mind. None of the people here, welcoming though they may be, count among those with whom he could trust such a delicate, personal difficulty – barring practical matters such as the language barrier and maintaining discretion. Even had they known of worlds beyond their own, the thought of divulging his private affairs to a virtual stranger makes him feel physical revulsion. It is aberrant to his very nature.

Were he on Coruscant, bathed in the ethereal atmosphere particular to a gathering of Jedi, free of the inhibitions of secrecy – his situation would nonetheless remain largely the same. He has few friends among those of the Order. Circumstances are partly accountable, as he and his Master are rarely at the Temple – but mostly it's his own quiet, reticent nature that precludes the seeking out or forming of lasting connections. Those few days spent on Coruscant each year most often pass in undemanding solitude, his presence noted but infrequently hailed upon his passage down sleek Temple hallways and smooth marble steps, one Padawan among many, one Jedi among more. And that is enough; the simple presence of other Jedi is enough. Rather than in faces, Obi-Wan's Temple is painted in the dusky blues and purples of a smoky skyline at twilight, the rainwater and citrus smell of the bonsai garden Qui-Gon keeps, the even flowing curves of a small olive-brown stone left safe upon his mantle to welcome him at each visit. He doesn't feel wanting.

His footsteps take him to the back door of the house, and he lets his troubled meditations slip away from the forefront of his concentration. Four of the wizards sit at the kitchen table, playing cards. He walks to the sink for a glass of water; midway to his destination, the tugging starts. He slows. His path diverts. His fingertips brush against the back of the boy's skull, then touch his forehead, gentling the rawness inside the skin.

He pulls away. The Living Force fades to the back of his mind, and he realizes he was healing.

The boy looks at him with wide green eyes, rubs his scar. He's twisted in his chair, his hand of cards laid face-down upon the table.

"Thank you," he says, relief and wonder in his voice and projecting from his feelings.

Obi-Wan inclines his head. "You're welcome."

While he retrieves the glass of water, while he carries it down the hallway, while he sets it on the nightstand of his Master's bed and props him up to drink – their curiosity, tinged with surprise and respect and awe, follows his progress even when their eyes do not.

* * *

Later that night, Hermione joined Harry and Ron in the boys' room, the house gone quiet as even the night-owls among them (Fred and George, and, perhaps not so strangely, Lupin) settled in to sleep.

Or compare notes, in their case.

"-telling you, Hermione, there's something a bit queer about the bloke. You agree with me, don't you, Harry," Ron said, turning to Harry for support, "there's something odd about Ben. I really think he's a little nutty, deep down. Like for real, straitjacket nutty, except it only comes out at certain times. The way he just went all polite like that after the boggart, that's not natural, I'm telling you."

"It is strange," Harry conceded, petting Hedwig as she enjoyed some time out of her cage.

"It's unhealthy, is what it is," Hermione sniffed, half-mindedly arranging scraps of yarn into different color configurations. "And don't forget, Harry," she added, "he stopped your scar from hurting just this evening, and he wore your mum's sweater, Ron, to keep her from feeling bad. So whatever kind of unusual he is – because yes, I do certainly agree there's something about him that's odd – I don't think he's the violent kind."

Ron hummed noncommittally, frowning.

"What seems odder to me, though," Harry said quietly, "is that I still haven't seen him use a wand, and the only spell I've seen him use is that wordless, wandless one he uses to levitate Quinn. He's not a Muggle, we know that, but he doesn't act very much like a wizard, does he?"

Hermione looked thoughtful. Hedwig left her perch on Harry's arm to settle delicately on a closet knob, preening.

"Maybe he's from some tiny little country in the middle of nowhere that has a no-wand policy," Ron suggested, only half-serious and shrugging, leaning back into the pillow he'd pulled down to sandwich between his back and the wall.

Hermione snorted, but her mind was still clearly musing over possibilities. "He's obviously from another country, that much I agree with..." Her eyes lit up. "You know, Ron, you might be right. Perhaps he's some kind of monk?"

"A monk, Hermione?" Harry asked, trading a look with Ron and picturing old, balding men walking in slow processions waving candles and praying.

"Well, yes, there are a few wizarding monasteries left in the world, you know," she explained, absently tapping her finger against her thigh. The yarn bits lay still now, left haphazardly in a rather garish orange, purple, and green herringbone combination. "The Confucian temples in rural China, for one, are notoriously secretive. And according to legend, Buddhist wizard-monks in East Asia tamed the first phoenix. Though I don't know how many Buddhist-wizards are left that practice the Theravada style, it's mostly Mahayana now...Europe's got a handful of Judeo-Christian-Islamic monasteries, of course. Not to mention, there's at least sixty known Hindu sects that practiced elementary wizardry, all of them quite quirky –"

"Er – Hermione?"

"Yes. Right," Slightly pink, she composed herself while Ron shot Harry a grateful look. "My point is," she continued, "whenever spirituality and magic get mixed up, you can't assume anything because they've all got their own rules and rituals. I've read some sects consider wands a crutch, and don't use them at all – they'll kick you out if they catch you using one." Then she nodded to herself. "Ben could definitely be a monk of some sort."

"So why would he be here, instead of over at his monastery doing...monk things?" Harry asked skeptically.

"Well," Hermione looked less certain now. "I'm not that familiar on magical-spiritual conduct, so I won't know for sure until I gather more information."

"We could just go up and ask him," Ron joked.

Harry doubted that would work. "I get the feeling he's not ready to rhapsodize his life story."

Visibly surprised, Hermione peered at Harry. He looked back at her quizzically. Then, with a slightly manic enthusiasm surfacing, she beamed. "_Rhapsodize_, Harry? I applaud your expanding vocabulary."

Ron groaned.

* * *

He feels himself in her thoughts – all abstract images and concepts formed from remembrances of conversations with her family, then overlain with expectations: hope and worry and disdain and the distinct call to succor, unmistakable to Jedi.

He answers the call.

"Ben, you have a guest – oh, well, there you are, aren't you." Red hair tucked back in a scarf, the woman radiates surprise at finding him already on his way out of his room, and uncertainty about the guest – with overtones of embarrassment centered on the young woman's physicality – and determination to be courteous regardless.

"She's, well, at the door. You can ask her to come in, if you like. And if she does, of course. Whatever you think is best."

Obi-Wan nods. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

The minutiae of their language is, as yet, lost to him. He understands more than they realize, but much of his successful communication with them still derives from his openness and receptibility to their broadcasting – not just emotions, but complex strings of intertwined impressions, words, memories, sensations, and reactions. He passes through the kitchen and living room on his way to the front door; most of his host family is spread between either of these two rooms, as they tend to gather in the evenings. As a newcomer and specimen of discussion, they, like their matron, are not unexpectedly interested in his dealings. But while the woman seeking him, too, garners their curiosity, she also elicits an undercurrent of...sexual unease among the males, and faint tension from all centers on her identity as a foreign species.

The boy is relieved when he can leave his place as greeter by the door; he returns to sit next to his two age-mates, his red hair contrasting brightly against their brown and black when he leans in close to whisper.

Obi-Wan slides his hands in his sleeves and bows. "Good evening, miss. How may I be of service?"

She cocks her head to the side a little, clearly studying him, her arms crossed over her bare chest. She's young; a late teenager, nude and pleasantly featured, clearly the point of discomfiture for those assembled. Like the wizards, she bears tension towards those of the other species, but her feelings on Obi-Wan are mixed.

"You're Ben?"

"Yes."

She pauses a little. "I'd like to thank you for healing Morgwen." Still said with caution.

He shakes his head. "I do not need thanks. She is well?"

"Yes. She's doing much better." Her relief and gratitude flow where her words do not: in a series of images centered on a young girl cantering through a forest, curled up beside their mother, braiding flowers through her tail, he learns Morgwen is her younger sister.

Obi-Wan smiles. "I am glad."

She smiles little in return, and her focus keeps darting back to the wizards behind her. "And your companion?" she asks politely, the stiffness in her speech belying her discomfort. "I'm told he was in great difficulty."

"He does heal."

She peers at him more closely, but his expression is unchanged. She opens her mouth, but stops before speaking, and shifts a back hoof instead, her black tail switching a little to one side. He can feel her conflict over how to act with him – a human and, to all appearances, a wizard; yet, the man who saved her sister's life.

"You would like to walk outside?"

She unfolds her arms. "Alright."

Walking through the snow, they don't speak immediately, but her controlled demeanor relaxes considerably. The lights from the house cast long shadows across their backs as they move farther away. Sun-warmed, the thin crust of snow splits and crumbles beneath his feet and every delicate placement of her hooves, revealing the softer layer beneath. The hem of his cloak collects ice crystal fragments like little burs.

"...I'm called Henna," she says, looking ahead. "My mother sent me to find you."

"Galla gave me much help. I thank her, and you, Henna, very much."

She faces forward, but her eyes watch him sidelong. In a moment that betrays her youth, her rebellion towards her mother leaks past courtesy, and she tilts her chin up with an equine snort. "She just helped you to the hospital. I wouldn't have done it."

A faint breeze sweeps across the landscape. Obi-Wan watches it thread its way through the distant tree limbs clicking like insect legs.

"I am sorry."

She glances at him sharply. "What for? Do you think I'm lying? I'm not. I would have left you both to die."

"I know."

She stops, and so he does, too. He meets her angry eyes calmly, hands tucked into his sleeves. She stamps the snow once or twice with an elegant foreleg, her black and white coat sleek and dark and thick in the coming winter night. Slowly, her defiance melts to confusion.

"I don't understand you," she says finally. "You're not like the other wizards. You're not arrogant. Why not?"

He smiles a little. "All humans are not...arrogant? This is the word? Talk to wizards, live with wizards, you see this."

At that, she snorts dismissively, flicking some hair out of her eyes with a toss of her head and moving forward. Tranquilly, he walks at her side, projecting gentle encouragement. Her body language reads challenge, but every so often, she casts a quick glance his direction, consideringly.

They pass several minutes in this manner before she speaks the question he has been waiting for since her arrival. She looks at some point farther in the distance. "My father is sick. It's the same thing that Morgwen had. If you could come and heal him, we would be very grateful."

He looks up at the sky. He thinks of silver streaks like shooting stars through his Master's hair, curled like moon contours when unbound and splayed, in sleep, on a pillow, or a blanket, or _his Padawan _the brown earth of a temperate world. The blue night is the clear cobalt of his Master's eyes.

He feels the Force's silence, because he needs no guidance towards this answer.

"Of course."

And, demurely, he sidles up to his Master's presence, touches his Master's dreams in silent farewell, and realizes he must have been projecting his _maudlin, borderline amatory_ thoughts along their connection all this time, to have influenced his Master so; because there is nothing else to explain what he finds.

Qui-Gon dreams of Obi-Wan.


	3. one of these nights

-three-  
_-one of these nights-_

Harry was as surprised as anyone else when Ben up and left, flying along with long, impossibly fast strides at the heels of his cantering centaur guide like some kind of windblown seed. He took enough time to thank them all, of course, and explain his situation – he would return in a few days, and could he please leave Quinn here in the meantime, but could they stay out of his room? And something about Quinn's not needing food or water while he was gone – Harry didn't really get how that was supposed to work, and Ben, despite the rapidity with which he picked up English, didn't really have the vocabulary to explain it properly, but nevertheless somehow got Mr. and Mrs. Weasley's reluctant compliance with his request. Then went into his room with Mr. Quinn for a good half hour, presumably to do whatever it was he just described, while the rest of them shuffled around trying to pretend that there wasn't a pretty, topless centaur girl waiting on their porch and sending out definite don't-come-near-me-I-don't-like-you vibes.

That was New Year's Eve, and the holiday had since passed in another round of raucous, merry celebration. It was strange, but even without Ben there (and despite the hungover state of a certain few), Harry, like many of the others, found himself waking early the next day on force of habit – only to realize that, for the first time in a little over two weeks, there was no warm breakfast waiting below. But besides that – because sleeping in was something Harry could get spoiled by just as quickly as a delicious morning meal – with Ben gone, something felt...different, in a way he couldn't find the words to explain.

Soon after, Fred and George went back to their shop in Hogsmeade – permanently, this time, as they'd been Apparating back and forth all holiday to keep up with demand. Sirius and Remus, like Charlie, Bill, and Fleur, also parted ways after New Year's, off to do Order business – and no matter how much Harry wheedled, he couldn't get it out of them what they were up to. But then, they both seemed unusually worried and serious when he broached the topic, so he couldn't find it in him to wheedle very hard. It felt too childish. Especially since he rather thought that particular grim look they shared meant things weren't going very well.

So, although he wanted (and felt he had the right) to know, he let it go, and before he knew it, the winter vacation was at its end, and he found himself back at Hogwarts, visiting Hagrid with Ron and Hermione the afternoon before classes started and trading holiday stories. Which, as it turned out, included more than a few hints on Order business from Hagrid who, loyal and kind and steadfast as he was, couldn't hold his tongue to save his life.

Of course, it helped that, sometimes, he didn't actually try that hard to do so.

"-did she really, now?" Hagrid slapped his palms on the table with a large, guffawing laugh. Harry quickly grabbed his teacup before it could tip over. Hermione had a little more trouble with her own rescue attempt, as Fang's head was currently pillowed on her lap – along with a growing puddle of happy dog drool.

"Sure did," Ron replied enthusiastically, waving his own empty teacup around for emphasis. "Fleur socked him one good. And when Bill tried to explain that they'd washed up on shore because of that meteorite thing, and that _they_ jumped on _him _while he was trying to help, not the other way around – she started after the sirens!"

Hagrid laughed again, wiping the mirth from his eyes. "Coulda told Bill she'd be a fiery one," he chortled, settling down.

"Yeah," Ron agreed, tone suddenly dreamy. Sensing danger, Harry tried to elbow Ron, but he didn't notice. "I mean, just picture it – Fleur wrestling a couple of wet sirens on the shore-"

_That _Hermione took exception to. "Ron!" she cried, sounding disapproving and scandalized all at once in a McGonagall-ish way, but with something in there that was very much the equivalent of Fleur's displeasure over finding Bill in the sirens' embrace.

Ron snapped out of it, looking appropriately sheepish. "Er, I mean-"

"Oh, don't even bother," she sniffed, rolling her eyes. "I know just what you meant."

"I think you've lost this one – better just quit now," Harry advised, laughing. Hagrid, looking a bit red around the ears and hiding his amusement in his mug, nonetheless clapped Ron consolingly on the back.

"A man's got teh be true to his woman," he counseled wisely, and Ron flushed a blinding scarlet, Hermione not far behind.

"Speaking of women," she recovered primly, ruining the effect somewhat by her rather hasty change of subject, "How are you and Madame Maxine?"

"Oh. Oh, we're, ah – good." Hagrid's ears stayed red, and he rubbed the back of his neck somewhat bashfully, but he grinned a goofy little smile. "She's a wonderful woman. Real good ter me. Thoughtful, too – tucked away a picnic basket fer Christmas dinner, and we had it up there in th' mountains while we waited, under the snow and all. Real beautiful."

While he gazed into the distance with a lovestruck expression, Harry shot Ron and Hermione a quick look.

"So you spent a lot of time in the mountains this holiday, Hagrid?" he asked casually.

"Wha- oh, yeah. Sure did, what with Grand Crug Orgic taking his good ol' time gettin' back ter us-" he broke off, looking abashed, coming out of his daze and looking at them ruefully. "Don' know how yeh do it, ev'ry time."

Seeing he wasn't really angry, Harry grinned and raised his eyebrows, prompting. Hagrid sighed, as if put upon, but the corner his beard twitched.

"You do know we're really not down here just for that," Hermione said and patted his hand solicitously.

"Oh, I know," Hagrid replied easily, waving away her worries with a large hand. "And, well-" he shrugged, then leaned forward conspiratorially, licking some ale from his lips and setting the giant mug down. The three of them followed his lead, shifting closer as well.

"Now, don' go telling anybody I told yeh this. I don' think it'll hurt yeh ter know, an' if things go th' way they seem, yeh migh' know anyway, soon enough. But it's best to be careful, and keep mum, eh?" He regarded them all seriously, and they nodded, solemnly.

"You know we will, Hagrid," Ron assured him.

"Right." He looked down at the table, appearing more worried than Harry had ever seen him. He traded a glance with Hermione and Ron. If Hagrid, ever the optimist, was this anxious, how bad must his news be?

Truth is," Hagrid began gruffly, frowning with a crease between his eyes, "things with the giants are over. Me and Olympe, I reckon we did our best with 'em, but the Death Eaters've been there fer months – almost a year, maybe. Nuthin' we could do ter change their minds – except for one'r two, and th' Grand Crug got rid of _them_ pretty fast." He shook his head grimly. "After th' rest saw what he did, they didn' want a thing ter do with us. An' then, well, it wasn' safe fer us ter stay anymore. You-Know-Who – he's got 'em, fer good, and he'll use 'em 'til it kills 'em."

Hagrid took a long swig of ale, then, and sighed deeply.

So the few giants left were on Voldemort's side. That was bad, for obvious reasons – giants were really, well, _big_, and pretty strong too – but what else would that mean? He glanced at Hagrid's forlorn expression. He didn't have any particular love for giants, but neither did he wish for any species' extinction – which was exactly what Hagrid seemed to think probable. He tried to recall what exactly he knew about the species, other than the fact that they lived in clans, weren't too bright, resisted a lot of spells, and liked lots of meat with their meat.

"So what does that mean?" he asked when he found he couldn't remember much more than that. "They're on Voldemort's side now, but what's he planning to do with them? He can't just have them – what, attack places?"

"He could." Hagrid shook his head, eyes downcast. "That's what's most troublin'. They're so gone, not physically, y'understand, but-" he waved a hand near his temple, "in the head, that they probably wouldn't care what he wanted 'em to do, long as it lets 'em kill summat. Even if they die doin' it – an' you know yer regular wizard won' give 'em a chance," he added sadly – and Harry wanted to deny it, just for Hagrid's sake, to give him a little piece of mind – but couldn't. Because it was true.

"They're jus-" Hagrid shook his head again, looking frustrated and melancholy, "not right, not like they used ter be, an' I can't give yeh a better description than that."

After that, Hagrid became freer with his information, opening up to three sets of sympathetic ears with barely concealed relief. Harry reckoned it must have been bothering him for a while, even with having talked to Dumbledore, for him to unload it all so readily. But whatever the reason, the emotional catharsis relaxed him visibly; after he said his main piece, he sank more comfortably in his chair, pouring himself another helping of alcohol and absently patting the creepers of a carnivorous plant that slunk, every so often, over his shoulders from its spot on the windowsill.

"No, no, I, ah, wouldn' worry about th' vampires," he said lightly in response to Ron's rather uneasy question. "We, ah, got them."

Hermione's brows raised. "Got them?"

"Yeah, er – yeah. Jus' don' worry about 'em." Hagrid wouldn't meet their eyes as he fiddled with his mug. "Now don' ask me ter tell how or why, 'cause I won'," he added said firmly when he saw Hermione open her mouth. "I don' even know it all myself. An' don' go lookin', either, 'cause he's got enough to deal with without you lot pokin' 'round his business." And he took an unyielding, satisfied drink, while Harry traded significant looks with his friends.

_He_, he mouthed, and they nodded. It was something to go on, should they need to.

"So, then, that's vampires and mermaids with us, goblins and dwarves neutral, house-elves on whichever side their _masters_ are on," Hermione's nose wrinkled in momentary disgust, "and dementors, giants, some hags and most werewolves with V-Voldemort," she finished, summarizing neatly what they'd gleaned from Hagrid and surmised on their own. "Which leaves centaurs." She turned back to Hagrid. "I know they've been traditionally neutral in the past, but Professor Dumbledore and you both get along with them fairly well, so do you think they might reconsider their stance this time?"

Hagrid looked up from where he was scratching under Fang's chin, the dog long since having abandoned Hermione for a more appreciative caretaker. His tail beat a rapid _fwump_ against the floor.

"Eh, I don' think so," Hagrid said, tugging his beard absently. "They let me and th' Headmaster in the Forest, an' they respect Dumbledore loads – but I wouldn' say they like us, not especially. I don' know." He paused, then shrugged, frowning a little. "No, they'll prob'ly stay out've it. I talked to Firenze a couple months back, an' he said he'd try, but he's already on bad terms with the Elder Herdleader, so _we_," he emphasized with a cleared throat – we, meaning the Order, in other words, "aren't expectin' too much."

"Right. So centaurs are neutral, then," Hermione said, nodding carefully as if filing that away in her mental checklist.

"Although, y'know that new bloke – if anyone could get 'em to change their minds, maybe it'd be him," Hagrid commented thoughtfully.

"Which new bloke?" Ron asked, cautiously eying a furry brown ball in the corner, previously thought inanimate, when it started twitching and making little trilling noises, opening a mouth from under beady little eyes to bare disturbingly sharp teeth.

"Quiet, Chewy, yer not gettin' extra dinner 'til yer breakfast," Hagrid called, but the creature didn't stop until Fang went and curled up by it, letting it burrow under his front paws. "Now, right, what was I-"

"The new guy?" Harry supplied.

"Oh, right. That one livin' in th' Forest. Met him jus' the other day, in fact, when I was takin' Chewy fer a walk an' he ran off. He's such a little thing, he would'a gotten eaten fer sure. Had me right worried, he did." He cast Chewy an affectionate look; the fuzzball let out a little snore. Harry wondered how such a creature _could_ run off – where were its legs?

"Then this strange feller comes up to me," he continued, "and right there in his arms he has Chewy, cooin' like a newborn Wumple. So I got Chewy back, and we got ter talkin', and it turns out he's campin' out right in the Forest. Had a real strange accent, and was certainly polite for a lad his age, but still, seemed like a real nice guy. Had to be, I guess – the Herd doesn't let just anybody live in their Forest, you know," he added emphatically. "That's why I think he's got ter be sumthin' special to 'em."

"Hagrid," Harry said slowly, "This new guy – was his name Ben, by any chance?"

"Well, yeah, it was!" Hagrid said in surprise. "You know him?"

The three traded a disbelieving, surprised look of their own. "How in Merlin did he get all the way up here?" Ron asked, a strained, calculating look on his face. "From Chudley to Aberdeen – that's – well, that's a long way!"

"He was with that girl," Hermione reminded him. Looking very doubtful, she suggested, "Maybe she, er, gave him a ride? If the situation was bad enough?"

"No, centaurs don't do that," Harry replied, shaking his head and remembering his own encounter with them. "Well, most of them. And I think she fit that category. She didn't seem to like us."

"Understatement there, mate," Ron added. Hermione pursed her lips, but didn't deny it.

"What's this, now?" Hagrid asked, looking at them with interest. Harry briefly explained Ben's stay at the Burrow. When he was finished, Hagrid made to help himself to more ale with a thoughtful look, then eyed the bottle's contents and set it down without pouring. He tipped a hearty portion of tea into the mug instead.

"Centaurs are a tricky lot. We respect each other, me and the Herd, but I don' understand 'em, and I don' pretend I do," he cautioned in advance, "But I s'pose if he helped one'v'em out, they might let him stay in the Forest as thanks." He didn't sound like he put much stock in the guess.

"But if it was only to repay a debt, why would he even accept the offer?" Hermione reasoned skeptically. "I mean, what's the point of staying in the Forest – and without Mr. Quinn? From what I've heard, Ben wouldn't leave St. Mungo's without him. Why would this be any different?"

"Maybe the bloke's gotten better?" Ron suggested.

Harry shook his head. "Then what about that boggart? If Quinn were doing well, Ben wouldn't be worrying about – _that._" He tried not to picture the pyre too clearly.

"True, true," Ron acknowledged, rubbing a hand over his chin stubble in a such a way that Harry had to restrain sudden amusement, "Maybe-"

"Now, jus' wait a minute," Hagrid interjected, waving large hands between them and forcing Harry to duck abruptly. "I know you three like a mystery more'n niffler likes tinsel, but that's no reason to go suspecting the lad of things or pryin' into his affairs. Far as I can see, he's done nuthin' wrong, and until he does, I think you oughta respect a man's wishes and give him a little privacy."

Technically, Harry thought, Ben had never _really _asked them to leave him alone...But he didn't say so aloud, because Hagrid did have a point. Quietly enigmatic though he was, Ben did seem rather unlikely to propagate misdeeds of any kind.

"That's very true," Hermione said, sounding contrite. "You're quite right, Hagrid; he really hasn't hurt a fly since he came here, and nosing around is certainly no way to repay him."

Ron and Harry rolled their eyes.

"Good." Hagrid smiled, taking a last drink of his tea, emptying the mug and looking out the window. "Now, it looks about time fer you to head on up to the castle. Best be goin' before it's dark."

And they were summarily bustled out the door, heavy tea cakes weighing down their pockets and a cheerful request to look forward to their first day of Care of Magical Creatures hanging ominously over their heads. Waving and groaning good-naturedly amongst themselves at the thought of what "surprise" might be in store, they trod back up to the castle through the snow.

When the topic strayed back to the division of the magical races into those supporting or against Voldemort, it was, unsurprisingly, Hermione who remarked first on the most disturbing feature of it all.

"You know," she commented with a heavy frown, "What gets me is that it's only the witches and wizards who aren't taking his return seriously."

Harry thought of the Ministry, of the newspapers, of his classmates and their parents, and had to agree.

* * *

"...sir...?...sir wizard...?"

A quiet voice, tentative and high-pitched in a child's cadence. His tiny front hoof worrying a stone into the soggy dirt, the little boy stares until he opens his eyes, then darts his gaze away and grinds the pebble into the ground.

"Yes?" he asks kindly, smiling a little. The colt is anxious. His flaxen bottlebrush tail flicks from side to side, and he doesn't answer right away. Obi-Wan lets him have his time, gathering the last wisps of his mind from the sleeping centaur beside him – an older woman, her dappled gray coat in the process of going white. Her chin tips forward onto her chest, her fever gone and her breathing clear with the absence of the virus from her respiratory tract. He touches her forehead, once more, and suggests the deeper sleep her age demands.

Intent yet distracted, the boy watches this last act with something like yearning. Especially his fingers; he focuses on Obi-Wan's fingers like holy relic to the devoted. To the colt's uncomplicated, young mind, _that_ is the part of the body from which those magical gestures come from, so that where the healing comes from, and that is what he needs to solve the problem that sent him to Obi-Wan in the first place.

The boy's understanding isn't wholly off. Touch is an essential healing conduit for the Force – the touch of two bodies, the touch of two minds. More rarely, the touch of both.

He shifts from cross-legged to kneeling and lets his palms rest on his thighs. "You know someone who is sick?"

"...my mother," the boy whispers, curling and uncurling his own fingers and looking at his feet. "She's yelling things, and talking funny, like Herdleader Tanos did." Then, even quieter, "My father doesn't want you to come, but, I..."

Obi-Wan touches the colt's shoulder. The boy darts a look to those fingers. "It will be all right," he says, and the boy's eyes lift to meet his and widen. And he nods a little, smiling when Obi-Wan does, waiting while Obi-Wan stands, but following that hand's withdrawal from his shoulder to Obi-Wan's sleeves like a hungry stray.

Patchworked in earth tones among the thick emerald and white of the evergreen grove are small clusters of centaurs – who know, keenly, his presence. Very few turn to him openly, whether in disapproval or approval; even those whom he's cured and their families are reluctant to acknowledge his passing more than they must. Their combined worry, disfavor, and gratitude give way only slightly to the tranquility he leaves in his wake.

He tries to spread that calm further into himself, but it's difficult. He's very tired. Sleep is...not easy, these days, and the Living Force is exhausting in a way he can't quite deal with.

But he does, as much as he's able, because he has to. What seemed like an quick-acting, painful, but easily controllable flu transmitting from a daughter to a father – hardly unusual, within a family – had become, by the time of his arrival among the Herd, a three-person case. And as he'd cleared it from Henna's father and the two others, another case sprang up in early symptoms. And then, three more.

The sickness is spreading.

Moving into sight of the Herd, the colt's nerves quicken, and he picks an edge-skirting path through the surrounding thicket. Though he walks between the boy and the Herd, blocking a direct line of sight to any who might watch, the boy's skittishness comes out in nervous, sideways glances he flits around the protective barrier Obi-Wan's body creates.

Obi-Wan blinks, slowly. Casts his hearing out in a wide net, and hears a woman's shrill yells – casts out his sight, and can see her shaking and clawing at the man holding her – and has to release a brief burst of leaf-blackening frustration. Psychosis. Delirium, hallucinations. Had the father let his son seek him out earlier – had the father asked for aid himself – then the virus wouldn't be eating this woman's mind alive –

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and lets this, too, go. A Jedi does not condemn. A Jedi accepts, and works in the now.

He lets his Force-enhanced senses fade. He reaches out to the leaves he burnt in his release of anger – pulls them from the prickly, wintergreen bush, feels a deep shame, and regret, and crumbles them gently in his fist. Were he able to regrow them...When he opens his hand, resentment vents to the Force and ashes flutter from his palm – in flakes, like sooty snow.

A Jedi accepts.

The colt casts one last look over his shoulder at Obi-Wan as they dip behind a hill, hidden from the Herd's sight and sound and shadowed by several of the same large, red-berried bushes,. At the slushy, pine-needled base, the boy's mother rants wildly and struggles in the arms of the large male centaur, deep red-brown and bronze-skinned against her lighter palomino. His back is to their approach.

The colt leaves Obi-Wan's side, carefully, and picks his way quickly, cautiously to his parents, sideways and skittering like a tumbleweed. The man doesn't turn from the crying woman in his arms, but a deep, furious rumble cuts clearly across the space.

"Wizard, you are not welcome here. Leave. You, Vita," the colt winces and looks at the ground, "you left your mother after I asked you to stay – to bring back _him_. Not even one of our Healers – I'm very disappointed."

The boy darts a shameful, frightened glance at his mother, who catches his gaze with wide, crazed eyes, and shrieks even more loudly, "_Vita!_ Vita, Vita my son your face, where is your face!" She twists in her husband's arms, pleading, "He's bleeding, Danick, he's bleeding, you're red, Vita, Danick, your son is red, mine isn't, he's your son, _Vita! Danick!_ Where are you, Danick-"

"Shh, Kaylah, shh, I'm right here-"

Terrified, the colt freezes in place, watches the whites of his mother's eyes roll, whispers, "Father, I didn't know what to do-"

"You shouldn't have left her!"

"Vita, come here, please," Obi-Wan says quietly and with a hint of suggestion, crouching down on the grass. The man shoots him an angry look over his shoulder; his wife bites his neck, and he throws his head back in surprise, gripping her arms tighter to her sides when she wails and scratches.

"Kaylah, please – Vita, stay – _Kaylah!_ Vita, we don't need his help, _stay here!_"

"_Danick! Danick!_" The stallion clamps a hand over her mouth, muffling her desperate cries. They degenerate into sad, wordless screams.

"Vita, come," Obi-Wan repeats softly, enveloping the hollow in a cocoon of Force silence, tendrils of it still stroking the boy's mind; and, shaking and scared, he comes.

The man roars, "Vita! _Wizard!_" But his wife tries to kick him, and he's too busy keeping her from hurting either of them to stop Obi-Wan. The colt sidles up to him; with a touch to his forehead, the boy drops into sleep, his spindly stick-legs buckling into Obi-Wan's ready arms. One more brief touch between the eyes sends the boy into pleasanter dreams than those awaiting.

He picks up the child, sets him aside, and turns back to the pair of grappling centaurs.

"Please, let me help," he says quietly, spreading calm with every soft step closer.

"No! Stay _back_, wizard, we don't need you – Kaylah, please, stop, _please_ – _stay away!_"

"Shh," he soothes.

"No _wizard's_ going to touch her – no, I won't let you-"

"Shh," he croons softly, and places a hand on the woman's back – but it's the man that recoils, grits his teeth, and raises a hand to strike.

"You don't need to do that," Obi-Wan murmurs, bending his eyes to the mare. Under his fingers, the Force flows in rivers of healing calm to the angry red places of the woman's body and mind, too weakened from struggle and illness to resist his steady urges to peace. Her husband blinks, frowns, grinds his teeth, shakes his head.

And says, "I don't need to hit you."

Obi-Wan nods, runs his other hand up the woman's neck, pressing inward to her strained vocal cords, loosening the delirium's crazed hold on them and quieting her voice to thready, uncertain whispers. He opens another corner of his mind to the Living Force; shivers, when it courses up and down his back like a thousand creeping vines.

"What are you doing to her?" Shoulders slumping, tail hanging limply, the stallion watches, confused and worried, disheartened and guilty, as if halting that one violent act struck all the anger right out of him. One arm still stretches around his wife's chest. The other hangs uncurled, empty.

Obi-Wan raises a hand; the woman's scared eyes follow its path to the center of her forehead. "I calm her." He presses his palm to the place between her eyes. She whimpers. A second later, her features soften, her limbs relax, and-

"Please hold her."

"Wha-" The woman collapses; the man catches her on reflex, lowering her the rest of the way to the ground and cradling her soft torso against his own. He runs a hand over her hair, protectively, tenderly, but frowns at Obi-Wan.

"She sleeps," he says, meeting the stallion's eyes, tucking his hands into his sleeves. "Your son, he sleeps also. I did not hurt them."

For a long moment, the man watches him closely, uncertainty and mistrust warring with worry for his wife and an uneasy, reluctant suspicion of his own helplessness. Obi-Wan waits. He feels the pulsing thrum of the Force in his veins; like blood, like water, and more essential than both. He feels the heat of the sun on scattered snowflakes, trickling down and melting before even capping the forest's canopy. He feels the pull, the draw, the near-craving of the Living Force to heal the wretched, ailing woman just paces away from him – and with it in his body, swimming through his mind, that craving becomes his own.

But he does. Not. Move. The decision to heal her shouldn't be forced – not if he doesn't have to. Which he will, gently, if he must – because the Living Force will have it no other way.

How can his Master _stand_ this?

"If you allow, I heal her."

The man says nothing.

"Please." Inside his sleeves, his fingertips press tightly to his arms.

The centaur's hand pauses at his wife's temple, caressing. He looks down at her and sighs, closing his eyes.

"You'll not hurt her."

"No."

"And I'm staying here. You know that. I'm not leaving her alone with you."

Obi-Wan waits. "I know."

For a long moment, the centaur is very still – then he nods, once, shortly –

– and in a billow of robes, Obi-Wan is on the ground next to them, at the woman's side, his palms on either side of her face, the Living Force rushing wildly from his body to hers, passing through him in a strong, terrible current, and –

– like a drowning man, he sinks under without a sound.

* * *

A day later.

Eyes glittering like coals, the black-haired centaur kneels, guardlike and wary as a watchdog at the side of a sick, solemn-eyed chestnut mare, hands resting on her throat but sight focused arrow-straight on Obi-Wan. Waves of strong resentment, distrust, and frustration press outwards from the young man in all directions and follow his progress across the clearing. As he nears, Obi-Wan nods in his direction.

"Good evening, Healer Bane."

The centaur bares his teeth, glaring. Beneath lowered lids, Obi-Wan watches the flow of the Force from the centaur to his patient, then lets his sight drift forward again, passing by the pair, towards the circle of pines in which the Elder Herdleader lives. The Healer's bitterness pushes against his mind like acid.

Patterned by hoofprints and pine-needles, Obi-Wan follows the short path until he rounds a corner and stands at the juncture of the Elder's space. Coat a simple brown and skin darkened by sun, the man stands quietly and unstrained despite thinning muscles and knees gone knobby – and arthritic, the Living Force whispers – with age.

"Elder Herdleader Magorian." Obi-Wan bows, and waits.

The stallion turns an unwelcoming eye his direction, studying him. Obi-Wan meets his gaze calmly, hands resting in his sleeves, faint sunlight trickling in through gaps in the pines and onto his face – giving it a healthy warmth he knows isn't entirely there, not as it used to be. The man's mouth thins into a firm line. In a moment, he nods, minimally.

Obi-Wan steps forward. "Herdleader. The virus is spreading. I can kill it, and I continue to kill it. I can't find the cause, but I am looking."

Looking off into the distance, the centaur raises one hoof, slightly, slowly, and stamps it into the ground, crushing needles and spreading threat and the scent of pine. "And our Healers? Are they of no use to you?"

"They are quite useful without me, I think," he responds mildly.

Turning, the man faces him with narrowed eyes. "But they can't kill the virus, as you can."

He inclines his head fractionally. "No, they can't."

"I find that very...curious, wizard."

He meets the stallion's eyes tranquilly. "I do not have-" a moment, to search for the word, "-ill-will to you."

The centaur snorts, crossing his arms and looking away.

"I have a request, Elder Herdleader."

"So do I, wizard. Tell me why I should listen." Uncrossing his arms, he strides towards Obi-Wan, intent and mistrusting and protective. "Tell me why I should listen," and he halts close enough to loom warningly, "when I'm not entirely sure the virus is the real culprit here."

Obi-Wan looks up serenely in the shadow of the centaur's greater height. "I am not your enemy, Herdleader. I request-"

"Not good enough, wizard," the stallion interrupts, shaking his head and tilting his chin down dangerously.

"Magorian?"

Neither he nor the stallion faces the woman standing between the pines at the entrance; the Herdleader out of the desire to intimidate Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan with the intent not to belittle the Herdleader's attempt.

"Callidora." Shortly.

"Magorian, what are you doing to our guest?" Stepping forward, the centaur comes to stand by them, disapproval etched on her features.

Still frowning thunderously at Obi-Wan, Magorian shakes his head tightly. "Herdleader Callidora, should you not be tending to your husband?"

"My husband is fine, and does not need my constant attention," she retorts sharply, "thanks to this young wizard you're threatening."

"If a threat is what's needed, then I will give it," the stallion booms, a steely glint in his eye. "For this Herd, I do what's best, and this _young wizard_-"

"-_is _what's best," the woman cuts him off, stepping into the man's personal space and narrowing her eyes. Amiably, Obi-Wan glides back a pace.

"You would see it that way, as he..._healed_ Tanos. I respect your point of view, Callidora, but I must cast doubt where others refuse to see it."

The woman frowns, glancing at Obi-Wan and crossing her arms over her chest. "And upon what grounds is the doubt cast?"

"On the grounds of evidence!" Finally, the centaur breaks from Obi-Wan and faces the woman. "The wizard claims to heal us, yet more cases spread. He claims that he does not know why this is, yet he alone remains unaffected by the disease and is the only one capable of destroying it."

"And you hold this as evidence?" the woman asks disbelievingly. "Because one wizard alone cannot stop an outbreak?"

"You know the wizards and their petty wars," the man says darkly, "and you know they have always been just as adamant about involving the centaurs against our will. Perhaps this time they've simply chosen to eliminate us."

The woman's lips thin. "I don't believe that. Not only would our own means serve us in alerting us to such an attack, but we would have received word from Albus Dumbledore, had that been the case."

"So you again turn to _him_, another _wizard_, instead of to your own Herd," the man condemns angrily.

"It is _you_ who first opened relations with the wizard!" the woman cries, throwing up her arms – then visibly taking a few long breaths, lowering her arms and calming herself. "An action I have always admired as a sign of open-mindedness few among us have," she acknowledges, closing her eyes briefly before opening them, determination in her voice. "It is past time to use that wisdom once more, Magorian, and notify Albus Dumbledore of the virus so he can take the proper measures to safeguard his school. Wizards or not, they are still living beings, Magorian, and should Hagrid bring the foals into the forest they may be at risk–"

"Do not lecture to the knowing, Callidora," the man snaps. "And be careful where your accusations tread. I do not engage in willful ignorance, nor do I harm foals."

"I was not-" the woman's scowl fades abruptly, replaced with red. "I was not insinuating such a thing, Elder. My apologies."

"Taken." The centaur nods, and he, too, makes an effort to restrain himself.

Patiently, knowing neither has truly forgotten his presence, Obi-Wan waits while they continue to argue, less heatedly, for another few minutes. He keeps his peace until the conversation works its way back around to the topic of sending a centaur to notify the castle.

"I ask that you don't."

Halted mid-flow in disagreement, both are taken aback at the interruption.

"And why is this, wizard?" the man demands, rounding on him, irritation surging anew as he perceives the suggestion as an attack on his authority – from a young, green, _human _upstart, no less. The woman, too, faces him, but more quizzically and less severely.

"The virus spreads too easily. I have a request."

"Oh?" the man rolls his shoulders back imposingly, but the woman raises a hand to halt him, watching Obi-Wan carefully.

"And just what is this request, young wizard?" she asks. He looks to one, then the other, expression mild and voice firm. This word, he'd had to look up especially; the correct meaning is imperative.

"Quarantine."

* * *

Pale moonlight shimmered into the dark crevices of the antechamber, illuminating patches of gold and pale blue molding and patterning the smooth, curved backs of the dark cherry chairs with pinpricks of reflected light. Old opulence lingered in the air as a tangible scent: stale, clean, lacking human flavor. Standing in the center of the room, still and silent, a dark-robed figure waited – not an unusual sight in this particular chamber since its recent return to use. Yet for those who knew what – or rather, who – lay on the other side of the door, they might question the wisdom of such visible calm. It could only mean the visitor didn't know what he was getting into; and thus, was a fool.

A nervous, twitching man, short and unkempt, creaked open the large door and stuck his head through, beady eyes darting into the faint light, nose quavering unconsciously. When he finally picked out the dark form of the waiting figure, he started jerkily; his first attempt at speech came out as something of a tremor. Clearing his throat, he tried again, his voice thin and reedy in the echoing empty space.

"Our Lord requests your presence."

Quietly, the man inclined his head, the motion encasing his entire face under the shadow of his hood except for the flash of pale green eyes. Simple dark brown robes skimmed dust from the intricately winding parquet as he brushed past the little man, who, with one last glance at the figure's back, stepped fully into the antechamber and closed the door behind him with a dull, booming click – a very imposing sound to a man who was already frightfully anxious and unsettled, more so than usual...and without knowing exactly why.

Inside the dining room, a long, polished table stretched the distance of the rectangular space, adorned on either side with chairs similar to those of the antechamber. Thinly ribbed columns rose from floor to ceiling, upon which a painting loomed in deep browns and golds – a half-dozen fearful-looking peasants, cowering under a horned, devilish apparition grinning menacingly from within the roiling, cloudy sky. And sitting at the head of the table, underneath the low light of a candle chandelier, a chalk-white man caressed the head of a sleek, pale snake and watched with gleaming red eyes.

The robed man bowed slightly. "Lord Voldemort." His hands remained tucked in wide sleeves across his chest. He didn't pull down his hood, but a few strands of red hair slunk outside its folds.

With easy condescension, the wizard gave the snake one last lazy pat and slowly focused his attention on the newcomer.

"...Sir Knight," he drawled sibilantly. "How...timely of you, to join me."

A small shrug, nearly lost in the amorphous dark mass of shadow and robe. "I confess to a regrettably busy schedule. Surely, you of all people must understand that."

The snake hissed, low and constant – and for the flash of a second, it appeared as though her master did as well. Then the candlelight shifted, and the wizard flicked one finger in his snake's direction; gradually, the serpent's hiss died out. Without even the hint of a last venomous spit, she coiled at his feet, becoming once more mere slender decoration, scales shining and white.

"Of course, I do." The wizard spoke each word with deliberate attention, curling around each syllable as if it was a chess piece, to be picked up and its worth analyzed before the final placement – slowly, methodically, dangerously, but with underlying madness. "Consumed as you are with the delights of space–" and suddenly he held a red oval device in his fingers, which he twined about in pointed disregard, "one can only imagine what toys you bring down to our little planet with which to engage yourself."

The corner of the man's lips quirked up ever so slightly, watching the Force-shield detonator twirl idly in long, pale digits. So the Lord sought more...gifts.

"What I do not understand is a certain lack of progress on your part," the wizard continued, leaning back on his chair as if unconcerned. "Or rather, the part of this clever disease of yours. Perhaps you can explain to me why I have yet to hear of a single report of unexplained illness from my contact?"

An eyebrow raised, lightly, but carefully. He toyed with this wizard, yes, but the wizard was one of the most feared beings on the planet for a reason...and he had another, more important task to complete on this planet, for a far-off Lord he would _never_ dream of playing with like this. He could not fail his Lord.

"You have told your contact about me?"

"I have not," the man waved a long-fingered hand negligently, elegantly, "nor have I mentioned the virus, as I am a man of my word. But I flatter myself that Severus is one of my more well-chosen followers. Intelligent. Prone to obedience. Well-versed in lying." He shrugged just as nonchalantly as the other had. "Prompt. He knows what I expect to have reported to me, and would have done so, had a situation such as an unknown disease appeared in the castle. Yet it is two weeks into the new year, and I find myself sadly lacking a report of any such kind." Now the wizard leaned forward, giving physical weight to the threatening glint in his blood-red eyes, slitted in displeasure.

"Remind me, _Sir Knight_ – this virus was introduced to those disgusting mules," his lips twisted in revulsion, "when? The beginning of December, was it not? And I was promised not only the infection of the entire castle, but the twin demises in particular of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter..." he smiled mockingly, but bared teeth in true anger, "as a Christmas gift."

"Oh?" The man feigned surprise, irritated at being addressed as a common servant. "I suppose, it is a possibility that those mules found a cure-"

"Do not mock me so," the wizard hissed, rising from his chair with whip-like speed, and the man tensed, carefully. "There is no one on this planet with such a cure. Unless," he withdrew a wand from his pocket slowly, caressingly, "you choose to go back on your words?"

"I do not," the man replied smoothly, regarding the wizard from an even height. This wizard was an interesting diversion, but he grew increasingly obsessive. His mind jumped from one focus to the next with creative, chaotic intensity – the centaurs, the boy, the old man, the Mudbloods, the old man, the Muggles, the boy, the old man, the boy – and over it all _for the Purebloods, for revenge, for _me_ and because they must _die_, kill them kill them KILL THEM-_

"Then _show me results,_" the wizard snapped, little of the underlying rage seeping through. As Cerberus at the gates of Hades, so tightly was it held in check until needed. "_Go_ to the castle," the wizard continued, "_find_ your mistake, and _fix_ it."

"...I shall," he responded offhandedly, inciting the wizard to rage – who pulled out his wand, no flourishes now, and raised it to cast, "_Cru_-"

"You'd like to see this?"

Seething, the wizard was nonetheless forced to stop mid-spell so as not to hit the small black device held between his wand's path to the man. Curved and smoothed, its surface broken into a series of controls, the man rested one finger on a single button.

"Show it to me," the wizard spat venomously, "now."

The man bowed. "As you wish." He pressed the button, straightening and saying, "You'll forgive the minute it will take it to arrive, but I assure you, it will be worth it."

The wizard's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "If you desire such forgiveness, you will tell me upon what I am _patiently_ waiting."

A hint of viciousness twisted the man's face. "A droideka, Lord Voldemort. A killer of a kind you don't have on this planet."

The wizard's eyes narrowed and his lip curled. "Another filthy Muggle _machine_."

"But much more reliable than any human servant could ever be," he countered swiftly, a hint of Force-suggestion in his words. The wizard still resisted technology..."Droids always do as you command, for they have no fear. They do not tire, they do not age, they have no friends or families, they do not _love_. I believe I'll take it with me to this castle of yours, to, as you asked, correct my errors...but once I'm done there – on loan, of course – I shall give it to you." A cold glint entered his eyes. "Not that there will be much left once it's done-"

A _crash _into the stillness of the night; a burst of rubble, the screech of an old house ripped apart; and when the debris cleared, a sleek, shining, deadly creature unfurled in a delicate clicking of metal limbs. With a serpentine sway, the machine tapped its way from the wreckage of the wall to the man watching him, red sensor eyes gleaming, blasters bared and waiting for further command.

Absently, clearly focused on the droid, the wizard waved his wand with a murmured word, the nighttime view once again blocked when the wall repaired itself. Silently, his eyes flickered over the droideka, coldly analyzing.

The wizard's hate for its very presence was palpable; but the temptation of righteous violence laid a heavy counterweight. If nothing else, this wizard was intelligent, adaptable, and ruthless. Already the man could see visions of revenge filling the wizard's mind in a haze of anger and bloodlust; a mind given to bouts of ingeniousness and carefully devastating destruction – the initial draw of seeking out such a mind as entertainment – but with that intriguing ability to turn savagely gleeful, almost manic, at the thought of having great power under his control.

The man bowed in a courtly fashion. "You may, of course, think on the matter," he assured. "It will come with me to the castle, for now."

The wizard hissed, threateningly, wordlessly, and unbidden, the slender white snake rose from its coils beside its master.

"Do not fail me."

The man bowed. The corner of his lips quirked upward to reveal a canine.

"A Jedi is always glad to serve."


	4. indigo

-four-  
_-indigo-_

"I must leave."

If he keeps his hands in his sleeves, they can't see them shaking.

"But I come back."

He stands at the edges of their forest, wrapped in his robe, the hood pulled over a face he knows has gone pale and strained. Four sleepless nights – and meditation, no substitute.

But they don't need to know that.

"And those who remain ill?" The younger male Herdleader stands, his condition much improved, but rests a portion of his weight against his mare's side – the other Herdleader. In the falling of sunset, they cast a single cool, violet shadow onto the snow-crusted forest fringe. "I understand you've healed those sickest, but I worry that the recently afflicted shall weaken during your absence..."

His back is to the sun, so they can't see when he closes his eyes. "Yes." Quietly, he doesn't deny. "I am sorry." It is this he feels worst about. And his only consolation is – "No one dies, while I am gone."

Of this he is certain, and because he is certain is the only reason he leaves. Days of constant work have given him a safe time-buffer in which no patient is far enough along in the disease that his leaving will cause permanent damage. He knows better than to work himself to uselessness – and isn't at that point yet, not so long as he can still take in the Force – but the need to work swiftly, to repress the virus faster than it could mature, was there.

And so he satisfied it. And later, when the situation isn't so imminent, he'll let himself pay the price – fully, with more than just the trembling of limbs.

"Your Healers know what to do. Maintain the quarantine. I return quickly."

They watch him for a moment, unspeaking and silent, but not hostile. Occasional far-off shouts of laughter fill the still, empty air sporadically, filtered by space and thinned by winter chill – the children at the school take advantage of their free time and the snow, on clear evenings like these. But never too far from the castle; tethered by instinctual, invisible boundaries, seldom straying out of sight of the watchful adults – who pause at a window, by a door, just to check – of whom the children aren't even aware.

It reminds Obi-Wan of the crèche – though only distantly, and only with vague sentimentality. While his time as a crècheling was not unimportant, the truly significant part of his life didn't begin until he was eleven and a half, and Qui-Gon entered his life for the first time–

–in the Temple, in a swamp garden, Obi-Wan watching the man wriggle bare toes into the slimy earth like any youngling, green life all around him and water lapping at his feet, the heady, fresh smell of dirt and heat and citrus and sweet thickening the air, and the Master letting himself be watched – until Obi-Wan approaches, wrinkling his nose at the smell, at the heat, at the sensation – at everything for which Qui-Gon is purposefully there to experience. Who only smiles, and reaches down to the ruddy, smooth mud, scooping some onto his fingertips from beneath the pooling wet and placing his fingers _just there _in the center space of Obi-Wan's eyes. And laughing warmly when Obi-Wan immediately wrinkles his nose even more–

"...and you're sure you're unaffected by the virus?" the woman is saying, shifting slightly, watching Obi-Wan, unaware of his distraction. "I do not mean this as a complaint – but I think it wiser that you should keep to your quarantine, as well."

Obi-Wan watches a long tentacle creep out of the lake. It plucks an entire shrub from the shoreline and drags it under. "Perhaps. But I must leave. I am fine, and I am certain to remain so."

The man asks, "And this other man you're bringing back – you say he will be willing to heal us, as well?"

When out of stasis and awake, "Yes."

The man nods gravely. "Then on behalf of the Herd, Callidora and I extend our thanks, and acknowledge our debt to you and this man upon your return. Should you want for anything, you have only to ask either of us, and, be it in our power, it will be granted."

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I need no thanks."

The woman actually smiles a bit. "So I've heard." She shares a glance with her husband before looking seriously at Obi-Wan. "But don't doubt the sincerity of our offer."

"I do not. But I can't accept it."

The woman flicks her tail and makes a noncommittal noise from between her teeth. "Hmm. Nonetheless, the offer stands." And Obi-Wan lets it go at that, bowing and beginning to turn-

"Before you go, though," she adds, and he pauses, "I will ask that which the Elder is too stubborn to. Could _any_ wizard be healing us right now, if we were to consent to alerting the castle, or is this something only you know?"

He faces them again, pausing contemplatively, then shakes his head. "I do not know. Perhaps. But I heal...differently, than many wizards." But he's no Jedi Healer, and the situation here is slowly growing past his ability to contain on his own – and this is why he _must_ leave, even if it means letting early sickness advance in a few. For though the Living Force guides his actions with a singular intensity, it is no substitute for a second sentient being. One who communes with the Living Force naturally. One whom he has left among strangers for long enough, no matter how trustworthy they may be – one who is his responsibility, and his alone. One whom he needs now not as a Master, but as a fellow Jedi. And the forest will be good for his Master, even if he must remain in his Padawan-induced stasis.

Even if Obi-Wan has to close his eyes against the sudden urge to hear his Master's voice–

"You could elaborate, perhaps?" the stallion asks undemandingly.

He shakes his head. "I lack your language, to explain what I know. But what I know is not much." And they accept his answer without any real sense of bother – as he feels, though they'd hoped differently, they expected as much.

"And so you leave. But you know best what you must do," the woman says, shifting to accommodate a matching transfer of her husband's weight and tilting her head slightly. "I would like you to know that Tanos and I will speak to the Herd while you journey. There is no need for another like Kaylah, and no further need for the kind of blindness that let her become that way. It is time to let trust lead our way."

He tips his head in a bow. Word of the mare's near mind-death spread quickly despite – or perhaps in accordance with – the Herd's cultural uprightness. For days, mixed emotions had swirled about the centaurs in tight eddies of conflict; but, eventually, censure of the husband's short-sightedness won the majority. Expected, in a race faintly dipped in the Unifying Force.

Another unexplainable phenomenon of this planet.

"As I was in no condition to do so before," the man adds solemnly, "I give you my personal thanks, for my brother's life, for my niece's life, for my own, as well for those of my brethren. Had you not crossed Morgwen's path that day, her mind is not the only one that would now be lost to us."

_There is no coincidence; there is the Force._

Qui-Gon's voice whispers through his memory. In silent reply, he smiles, simply; and while their minds are opportunely focused on their gratefulness, he asks the centaurs, "When I leave, you let me ask for the help of wizards at the castle?"

At his question, the woman and her husband trade a significant look. "We're thinking about it," the man sighs pensively. "You must understand – it isn't just the Elder. As a whole, this is not an easy thing for us. Wizards are generally not an option we consider."

Obi-Wan turns slightly, bearing a measured, meditative look. "Perhaps you must."

"Yes." The centaur nods solemnly. "Perhaps we must."

This is the end of their conversation; Obi-Wan gives a bow, turning to take his leave, drawing the Force about him like _vetiver and frankincense, Qui-Gon's robe _a warm blanket in preparation for his extended sprint – he'll be relying on it to feed his body nourishment, to feed his mind sleep, to feed his muscles swiftness, because he has no time to stop.

The centaurs each raise a hand in farewell. "Good pastures on your travels, wizard Ben," the woman calls.

He nods in thanks, and, without another word, turns and leaves.

Running to where his Master sleeps.

* * *

The foreboding comes upon him gradually – vague, elusive, fleeting, and source-less – but the realization of it swoops quicksilver between one breath and the next in startling rubescent flashes and the smell of iron.

He stumbles, stops. Swallows with a tongue dried in winter air, and pants, his hands on his knees, the fabric worn and rough beneath callused skin. The clear, pale sky of early blue dawn caresses the back of his neck – warm and comforting, on flesh gone suddenly cold. In the distance, streetcars and people wake to the trail ends of pre-dawn birdsong.

...Something dangerous approaches.

Muted warning thrums through his mind, a slow and steady drumbeat against the rapid pulsing of his heart; rising like a watchful hawk, he squints into the daylight, raising a hand to shield his eyes. He sees more than just the wintry landscape...but not enough, his touch with the Unifying Force unrefined and made unreliable by this planet, so chaotic is its Living Force.

-and with a swift fierceness that knocks the breath from his lungs, in that moment he longs for a different planet: Ryloth, and its dim, _warm_, twilit Rock Gardens colored all in freckled pale greens and coral; colored stones soft like a cat's purr, borne adrift by the wind, tinged with the exotic history of a thousand different origins; the tender vulnerability of thirteen ritual days of meditation, granted and spent in the Gardens as a request for his last naming-day; and watched over by Qui-Gon, who does not need to touch his Padawan's mind for Obi-Wan to _know_ that he's there and watching-

-he lets the longing go. But as he turns to the south and his Master, the looming pressure of prescience, thick and fatidic-

-stays.

* * *

A knocking at the door. Mrs. Weasley looked at her husband across her knitting, and he met her eyes above the antique sewing machine cushioned on his lap, bits of thread and bobbins strewn about his pockets. They weren't expecting any visitors by regular door, not with the kids all off to school and snow settling in. Any reasonable guest would Floo ahead...

She magicked her needles to pause mid-air, gathering herself up and over to the door while Arthur gently set his machine on the floor and reached for his wand. A glance at the kitchen clock showed that none of the family, relative or adoptive, were in danger – including themselves. Whoever was outside meant them no harm...

She peered out the tiny window but couldn't see much other than the grayness of snow and an indistinct earth-tone figure.

"Who is it?" she shouted, and leaned her ear close to the dark, worn wood to hear the reply.

"Intercommas!" Arthur suddenly burst out. "That's what we need – Molly, dear, Muggles have devices for just such a thing as talking through a door-"

"Not now, Arthur," she hissed repressively. He reddened and calmed, but scrawled a note in the air and sent it zooming to the refrigerator, where it attached itself firmly to their to-do list.

A muffled greeting echoed dully through the door. A certain few words, however, caught her attention, and she flung the door open with a warm smile on her face.

"Ben! Hello, dear, do come in, come in now-" she ushered him in, though he politely knocked the snow from his boots and removed them before padding from foyer to kitchen in socks, obediently following Mrs. Weasley's imperious hospitality.

"Arthur, look who stopped by-"

"Ben!" Mr. Weasley smiled in genuine welcome and strode over to the young wizard, giving him a friendly clap on the shoulder. The young man greeted them in return, taking a moment to tell of their children's continued safety at the school, and to thank them again for keeping an eye on Quinn.

But, though he was courteous as ever, it was clear Ben was in something of a rush and couldn't linger. That was alright, but when Mrs. Weasley heard the cause for the rush-

"Dear!" She exclaimed, looking at Ben in bemusement. "If you needed to collect your father so bad, whyever didn't you just take the Floo? You're a bit old to be gallivanting off into the snow without giving a thought to practicality, I think!"

"Or you could have owled, and we could have arranged something," her husband added with a concerned frown. "You really came all the way here on foot?...It's a wonder you're not frostbitten and frozen as a popsicle."

Ben shrugged, looking sheepish. "My home, there is no Floo, no owls..."

Mrs. Weasley just threw up her hands. "Young men, I swear."

"Well, when we get enthusiastic, sometimes we get forgetful, eh Ben?" Her husband smiled at him understandingly, though his look towards her was appeasing. "I've done that myself more than once, haven't I now, Molly."

She sniffed. "More than once."

He quickly turned back to Ben, now just as sheepish. "Er, well then...Shall we see to your father?"

While Arthur led Ben down the hall, making conversation about the centaurs and Hogwarts, Molly went to the kitchen and set the cutlery to preparing a cheese sandwich for, if she recalled properly, Ben was a vegetarian. She also dug out an old scarf and gloves of Charlie's (or Bill's, or Percy's, one could never tell) and cast some warming charms upon them before whisking along the completed sandwich and returning to the entryway.

Arthur and Ben were just returning as well. As before, Quinn floated alongside Ben, who kept one hand on the other man's shoulder.

If she looked close enough, the fingers on that hand caressed little circles, the kinds of circles she might draw on Arthur's chest after waking up together some content and sleepy morning – but the thought made her uncomfortable and a little uncertain, so she pushed it away as best she could. Father and son, they were, and fathers and sons didn't...

"Here, Ben," she said instead, handing him the scarf, gloves, and sandwich with maternal care, which he accepted with a smile, immediately donning them and taking a bite of the sandwich with his free hand.

"You sure you'll be alright?" Her husband's voice was disbelieving, his face worried. "And Mr. Quinn? I know we've bundled him up as best we can, but it's terribly cold out..."

In the middle of a bite of sandwich, Ben just nodded. Mrs. Weasley frowned a little. He seemed awfully hungry.

"Well if you do find yourself in trouble, send up a flare of some kind, or even better, a Patronus, if you can do one," Arthur suggested. "We'll keep a lookout for you."

"And send an owl when you make it there safely," Molly added sternly. "Don't just let us picture you wandering around in a blizzard for days on end. And say hello to the children for me, tell them I miss them already, and tell them-" She swallowed. "Tell them to be careful."

* * *

_Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap-_

"Stupid flies," the old man muttered, shifting on his rickety seat until it creaked. Stupid bugs got caught under the glass and killed themselves, bouncing around like Morse code 'til they died and _he _had to clean 'em out. Nasty task, that. Least sometimes the rats ate 'em after he dumped 'em out back – 'cause somehow he couldn't throw 'em in his own bin, not when that meant they dotted his moldy bananas and leftover crusts like little raisins. Little crunchy insect raisins.

_Tap tap tap tap tap-_

He cracked an eyelid at the yellow light humming above his head. Too bad he hadn't seen that young foreign bloke around for a couple of weeks now. Kid came in to buy a newspaper every couple of days. Said he was looking for odd jobs – so one day, when he decided the bloke was trustworthy enough, the old man pointed out the flickering ceiling lights and said, "If y'can fix 'em, I'll pay ya."

The kid'd done the job – and pretty damn well, at that. And a few days later, he came back just like clockwork for his newspaper. But in the perverse way the world liked to work for old men running corner stores in small old towns like Redlynch, _this_ light, this one waited 'til the young man stopped showing up to cause a fuss. And now it was the only light that flickered in the whole damn place. And it was going to drive him crazy.

A clattering of worn chimes against the door, and the man grouched a bit to himself as he sat up.

"Out in a minute," he called from the back room. A stretch and a shuffle later, and he stumped his way over to behind the counter, a radio droning on at his side and a decades-old cash register atop the peeling laminate. Patting the uneven surface until he found his glasses, he indulged in an exaggerated double-take when he saw who was standing by the counter, newspaper in hand.

"Why, speak of the devil!" he chuckled. "I was just thinking of ya. Still in the market for a spot o' work?" He waggled his eyebrows at the flickering light. Sure would be handy if the kid was, 'cause maybe he could get him to empty out the dead bugs too-

_Tap tap...Tap tap. Tap-_

The young man shook his head.

"Not today, Mr. Cobb. My apologies." He set a boxed lunch, a newspaper, and a rather skeevy tabloid on the counter. "How are you?"

The old man eyed the tabloid with distaste. "Back's been acting up, but not too bad, I guess. Y'ought not to read those things, y'know." He peered closer, squinting his wrinkled features into a frown. "Come now – UFOs? You don't really believe in that kind of codswallop, do ya?"

"Not really, no."

"Well then." He nodded in skeptical approval. "Why ya buying it?"

The young man shrugged, a fluent roll of the shoulders, and didn't reply other than to pull his plain brown jacket closer to his narrow frame.

"Suit yourself, I s'pose. S'your money." Grudgingly, he rang the tabloid up with the lunch and the nice, informative newspaper. Nothing wrong with good old-fashioned print. The cash register opened with a merry _ding, _clashing nicely with the soft jazz song crackling over the speakers, and the young man gave him the cash.

Counting out change, the old man asked companionably, "It still nippy out? Heard we're supposed to get some snow tomorrow. Not like we need it, eh?" He got fewer customers these days, especially in the winter, and a lot of the old regulars since his father's time had been dying off, God rest their souls; so he tended to make the most of what customers he had left. The younger ones, especially; plumbing them for conversation reminded him of when he himself was young and feeling that prime-of-life freshness. And this bloke in particular – not only did he not seem to mind an old man's shameless chatter, but there was something...vibrant about him, in a way that he couldn't really describe. Like being covered in a cloak of white, but colorful as the view through a kaleidoscope and stiller than a frozen pond – but not like any of these things, either. Just – indescribable. But it drew one in like a moth.

Realizing he'd been woolgathering, the old man snorted at himself – that kind of thinking was best left to dreamers and nutters, the kinds of people who'd believe in trashy rags about UFOs and werewolves and all sorts of ridiculous business. He'd never had the imagination for such things.

"It is very cold," the young man responded quietly.

_Tap tap tap..._

"That so?" Looking up, he handed the young man his change, saying sociably, "You sound like you appreciate it 'bout the same as me – that is to say, not too damn much-"

– then paused, blinking. He rubbed his eyes. For a second there, he was sure he saw-

"Did you see that?" he asked, staring at the spot next to the young man. "There was a man, floating there, and you-" weren't wearing faded blue jeans and a jacket, but a long brown robe, just like the man. Frowning, because it didn't make any sense and he didn't believe in hauntings, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt and so missed the second where his customer pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut, looking disproportionately more drawn and pale than the aging of a few moments should physically allow – the same person, but bleached and faded as an old photograph.

"There, that's better," he murmured to himself firmly, replacing his spectacles. When he looked up, there was only the young man, just as before – a tad more tired-looking than a couple of weeks ago, now that he scrutinized more closely, but still pleasantly demeanored and very much normal. And no floating men, either.

"Is something wrong?"

The young man's voice, accented and soft, broke him out of the last of his reverie. "No, no. Just an old man's wandering mind." He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth, before admonishing firmly, "You, on the other hand, ought to do something about those black circles growing under your eyes." He looked at him sternly. "And I'm old enough to say that to you and get away with it, so you're young enough to have to listen to an old man's advice. Stop partying and drinking and get some sleep. 'S fun, I know, but you'll pay for it later."

The kid had the grace to smile and say, "Of course, Mr. Cobb."

"Well, I suppose I've held your change hostage long enough. Here's the last of it."

"Thank you."

"Welcome."

Tucking his purchases under an arm, the kid wished him a good day and turned to leave. The old man called out in parting, "And hey - if ya got a minute sometime, come back and fix the wiring, eh?"

He'd tried not to sound too eager, but he must have failed, because this time when the kid smiled at him there was amusement clear in his – and he was not a man given to romantics, but this day, this moment, seemed the right time for it – _gentle _eyes.

–and if _otherworldly _fit those eyes just as well-

One last wave, a tinkle of chimes and the door closed.

And the old man was left once again with only the swift cold draft of the wind, the yellow glow and hum of the lights, the static crooning of the radio, the-

_Tap...tap...tap..._

He sighed. Time to dump out the light.

* * *

He _devours_ the lunch; reads and tosses the newspaper and tabloid into the recycling bin, and has discarded his guilt at pausing in his journey before the paper hits the stack.

Whatever the Force has been warning him of, it isn't to be found here.

* * *

Stasis is a delicate state.

In essence, it is the complete and dichotomous opposite of Force-enhanced speed – a comprehensive slowing down of all bodily functions until their rate of change is so insignificant as to be nearly undetectable. Derived from Morichro, stasis is an indispensable tool for Jedi able to master it, for with it one can save a life teetering on the brink of death. But not without its own swath of accompanying dangers, all rooted in this fact: that while the body can be paused indefinitely, the mind cannot be held still at _all _– not even for a fraction of a second.

There is a reason stasis is called the Living Death.

While in stasis, the mind moves constantly through image and thought – aware of the passage of time, but as if in unceasing dream. A body left too long in stasis will die if the mind's natural lifespan expires; an incorrectly prepared mind, still expecting the sensory input of life, goes mad upon receiving none; a mind already convinced of its own body's death can cause that death, even locked in time; and if hurt while in stasis, the body cannot react to heal itself – the merest pinprick can mean eventual death.

Obi-Wan is very, very careful with his Master. In the dark of night, he runs along an stretch of unlit land, his palm anchoring to his Master's chest, and thinks about when he will take his Master out of stasis, and remembers those thirty minutes during which he put him in it – so easy, too easy, to put a sleeping mind to stasis –

But much more trying than he let on, in ways other than those he expected. To coax his Master's body in such an intimate way...

-especially given the unsound manifestations of his affection as of late-

He could have destroyed Qui-Gon's mind. Had he mishandled the process, he could have. _Would_ have. And like fire to touchwood, his own mind would have gone with his Master's – the danger of minds connected by a training bond. The danger of apprenticing a Jedi.

The danger of the Living Death.

He crests the rise of the hill. The forest and castle are dim specters past the whirring of the snowflakes, the cold a tangible smell – crispness and ice. Wind shrieks through the trees with the _snap _of limbs shaking under the torrent, and his robe pulls against his skin in desperate attempts to take flight into the air's current. He leans down, bracing himself against the sudden buffet of shifting wind, his sight just as abruptly rendered all but useless in the face of the storm – but he doesn't pause. His Padawan braid streaks in his wake, an esoteric pennon – here passes a Jedi!

He draws warmth from the Force and forges onward, his Master in the protective shelter of _his Padawan _his robe and the watchful eyes of his Force-enhanced senses, extended in all directions to guide him where organic sight cannot. Steam rises at each touch of his feet to the snow.

-he thinks again of the Rock Garden. His Master is now the guarded; and he, the guardian, and against the impending darkness of terrible premonition _he will-_

Defend to the death.

* * *

In the shallow nook of deep-cut cave, he lays his Master down.

Faint whistling echoes down the dark passage as, outside, the storm continues unabated. Smooth, cool, and dry where the dampness of his robes doesn't soak, he kneels; the stone heats at his touch. Obi-Wan moves his Master to the place of warmth. Tucks his Master's robes more securely about the still form. Lifts the gray-streaked braid and lays it neatly on his Master's shoulder.

He should stand and leave, _now_ – but he doesn't. Because he wants to touch his Master's brow, draw a line down the crooked nose to feel the faint...slow...long puffs of breath. This, too, he doesn't.

"I'll take you out of stasis soon, Master."

His voice is steady. He isn't. Suddenly feeling overwrought with more emotion than he can handle – abruptly, he rises, turning from his Master and snapping his robe closed about him, shutting his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. The Living Force is an insistent presence in his mind, urging him to – to what? He can't tell. He's never been so in touch with the Living Force – why now? Aren't the recurrent visions from the Unifying Force enough?

To what end is the Force trying to guide him?

"I have to leave you here a little longer – just until I see what the Force wants of me. The people here are kind but don't know how to heal you. The Living Force is all you need, and that is best found out here, connected to the earth, and not in a hospital bed. When I take you out of stasis...perhaps a day, and I believe you'll wake." He opens his eyes, gaze unfocused. "I shall be very happy to see you, my Master. And I have missed your voice. You'll like this planet when you wake up-"

He cuts himself off – his whisper sounds _obscene_. What is he doing? His lips compress, a single tight line. Get rid of this. Release it-

-but not near his Master, who doesn't need this kind of backlash. He should not have let himself become this way-

He grits his teeth, briefly, rubbing a hand to his forehead. He feels trapped. Draws his fingers along the underside of his jaw, tiny little lines of scar tissue raising as he exercises the incredible control he developed that difficult, dark time, to turn his body into living testament. He feels trapped, and his scarring – twisted, intricate, interwoven, suggestive of vines, thorns, snakes, threads – reflects it.

Healing the Herd – it feels right. He doesn't doubt that. And he's prevented any deaths so far – but to what end? The disease still spreads, pushing beyond his ability to contain, and all he's done to himself is become this – this weakened Padawan, unable to understand the warnings given him by the Unifying Force, unable to channel the Living Force as it wants to be channeled, and holding ever more tightly to his Master when he knows he should let go.

When he leaves the cave, it is with the sense that at least Qui-Gon will not suffer further, nestled as he is on a nexus of Living Force energy, which can soothe him as Obi-Wan won't – _can't_, not until it's safe to remove his Master from stasis. The Unifying Force has only grown louder the closer his return to the castle, and it's that bone-thrumming threat he'll deal with first before he brings his Master further into danger.

_Just a little longer-_

In an eggshell shroud, the snowflakes around his body freeze – the delayed release of his frustration chills them into instant hail. They patter to his feet like pebbles; he steps over them: tread even, mind as steady as could be expected, and tired.

He meets with the infected half of the Herd. In the span of a night and a day, ten new cases have developed. Among this number are all the Healers, save one – Bane, who has worked himself to exhaustion.

He meets with the uninfected half, located clear on the other side of the forest in the hope that distance will prevent what one Jedi cannot.

A hope in vain; the sickness has spread. Quicker and more virulently than he'd expected. Three new cases, of which the Elder is one.

A foal is dead.

His quarantine within the Herd has failed.

* * *

"Well, look who it is – Ben! Haven't seen yeh around lately." The man grins friendlily, swinging a red and silver ax into the tree stump and letting it rest, handle-up, in the wood. Fresh-cut timber leans against the snow-powdered hut in precarious stacks. He wraps his dangling scarf more firmly about his wild beard, making his way through a yard of slushy, trodden snow and through the little gate at the end of the fence. Obi-Wan looks up; the man peers down at him, genial and surprised and concerned, but also with a healthy curiosity.

"You do alrigh' in that storm last night?"

Better now that his Master is safe nearby. Obi-Wan inclines his head slightly. "Yes, thank you. And you?"

"Oh, aye, I got on all right." The corners of his eyes crinkle into his grin. "I hunkered down with Fang all night, kept a nice fire goin' and roasted me a marshmallow – that's the way to do it, eh? But I've always liked me a good storm. They can be right pretty," and he lets out a guffaw, "not that many'd agree with me, I suspect."

Obi-Wan smiles. "Perhaps. I like to be warm better, myself."

The man nods companionably, looking understandingly at the tuck of Obi-Wan's hands into his sleeves, the bunch of the hood around his neck. "Takes all types, don't it. But listen, you, er, want a cuppa?" He gestures to his house, undemandingly hospitable, and scratches the back of his neck. "I know yeh keep ter yerself, but I never mind the company. I bet Chewy'd like ter see ya, too."

"Thank you, but not today, Hagrid. If you are not busy, I would like to go to the castle."

"Oh?" The man scratches his head, a little confused, and shrugs. "Well, go on up, then. Shouldn' be a problem. You, uh, into sightseein'?"

"I would like to speak to Albus Dumbledore."

"Oh," the man says, but now with a whole new wealth of meaning. He tugs on his beard, regarding Obi-Wan speculatively. "Migh' I ask why?"

A series of images dance openly on the forefront of the man's mind, spanning outward to Obi-Wan's – an old man in sparkling orange robes sitting across a tea set, the smell of mint; a flame-colored bird sitting on a perch, a silvery bird-shaped spectre winging through the sky; a hand on a large, hairy, insect leg; the aged wizard sitting at the head of a table, surrounded by others of his kind and tinged with grimness and hope.

"It concerns the centaurs..."

* * *

A Jedi!

"-must have survived the crash. He's aiding the enemies of a project of mine; he does not know what this world is, or he would have sought out the poles by now."

Of all the things to find interfering with his disease – a Jedi!

"And you are certain he is alone?"

Low, thick, and slow as a funeral procession, the voice crackled with static; the small blue image, robed and hooded, wavered with distance; but the overwhelming sense of _power – _coiled, potent, vicious – was unmitigated. Absolute.

A peasant before an idol, the telepath knelt.

"Yes." A Jedi – but not: "A single Padawan, and no more." His lip curled predatorily. "Masterless – probably from the crash. A vulnerable mind I am certain I can take." And add one more Jedi to his pair-

"Describe this Padawan."

He did, reigning in curiosity, and was cut off midway-through with a gesture of fingers.

"No. You will not take his mind."

Though unable to see beneath the hood, the telepath had the distinct sense of narrowing eyes – and there was no mistaking the harsh, vindictive pleasure in the following words, dark as oil and rasped out in a gravelly hiss.

"_Kill him._"

The telepath's head lowered in acquiescence.

"As you wish, Lord Sidious."

The image snapped out of sight.


	5. blood

-five-  
_-blood-_

The early afternoon was bright, sunny, and downright cheerful; the pain throbbing dully through his scar was anything but, and it was this which brought Harry to the office of one Albus Dumbledore on a day begging to be enjoyed out-of-doors. Seated on one of the cushy chairs facing the Headmaster's desk – a chair becoming all too familiar of late – and plied with pumpkin juice and scones, he attempted, as best he could, to put into words the vague emotions transferred second-hand through his scar.

"It's similar to what he felt a few days ago," Harry explained, frowning slightly and meeting the thoughtful, intent gaze of the Headmaster. "Really excited about something, but not as angry. Like maybe whatever it was that made him mad was fixed, or he, um, punished the ones who botched it, and now he's happy about it? I think," he added apologetically, wishing he could be more precise.

Seeing this, Dumbledore waved off his concern. "On the contrary, Harry, a gut reaction seems to me to be the best instinct to follow on a matter such as this. And never discount the power of a warning," he continued, tone kind despite the gravity of his countenance. "Any foreknowledge is still knowledge."

And that was nice to hear and all, but he still wished he could do more. Nonetheless, he nodded, and was rewarded with an understanding smile – it couldn't be easy for Dumbledore, either, Harry reckoned, watching the wizened fingers steeple into a pyramid. That feeling that something's going to go wrong, but without knowing why or when or how.

"Is there anything else, Harry?"

He stopped picking at the lint on his robe. "Yes, sir, but I don't know how reliable it'll be, either. I forgot before – I must have slept it off or something – but the more I think about it, the more I feel like I could, well, _see _a bit of what Voldemort saw, that last time." He looked up, cautiously, trying to gauge the old wizard's reaction. When he'd told Ron and Hermione, they'd looked more worried than was comfortable.

But while interested, Dumbledore didn't appear overly apprehensive, and that was more reassuring than anything his friends had tried to say after the fact. Harry let himself relax a little, and Dumbledore leaned forward slightly.

"And what could you see?"

"That's just it," Harry admitted, "I couldn't really make out anything. It was more impressions – it was dark, and there was something – a cloak, brown, and long, that I think might have been important, or familiar, maybe. And something shiny? But that might have just been the moon – I'm pretty certain the moon was there at some point..." he trailed off, realizing how little he could really be certain of – hardly anything – and how feeble his 'impressions' sounded.

But still, Dumbledore _had _said anything could be important, and even now he was nodding to himself and looking out his window speculatively. As the moment continued, Harry helped himself to a scone, nibbling it and feeding a few crumbs to Fawkes to give himself something to do other than fidget. Maybe what he'd said was more important than he thought?

And so it was with some anticipation that Harry awaited Dumbledore's next words, when, as he turned from the window, he opened his mouth and said:

"I believe there's someone at the gargoyle."

Harry blinked.

"Would you mind having guests for a few minutes? Hagrid appears rather worried."

"Um, no, I mean, sure," Harry recovered ungracefully. "I don't mind if Hagrid comes up. But doesn't he have a class pretty soon?"

"Indeed he does," Dumbledore acknowledged, "and as Hagrid takes all his duties very seriously, I would believe this to be a matter of some importance. Thank you for understanding, Harry."

A little embarrassed at the praise, but still pleased, Harry just nodded. Dumbledore smiled at him, then turned and gave a wave to the door, which opened obediently; on the staircase, Hagrid stood, one hand raised to knock, completely blocking the doorway with his considerable size.

"Hullo, sir," the man greeted friendlily enough, lowering his arm without preamble. "Oh! And hullo ter yeh too, Harry." But he wrung his hands anxiously as he spoke, not waiting for an invitation to come further into the office and simply squishing in. "Sorry ter burst in, but I got some bad news ter tell yeh-" he shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, and amended with a hasty introductory gesture, "er, rather, Ben here does-"

And sure enough, stepping quietly from behind the half-giant was Ben, looking somewhat tired but nonetheless sidestepping smoothly the waved hand that would have sent him tumbling back down the stairs. He looked at Harry, dipped his head with a small smile, then turned to Dumbledore and stood straight and still and serene, like some Grecian statue of patience.

Harry muttered a distracted "Hello" back, but he was too busy dealing with the odd déjà vu tickling at the back of his senses to give the greeting its due attention – something was niggling at him, insistently, and it wasn't just the odd fact that Ben seemed to pop up everywhere and all at once–

"Headmaster Dumbledore, sir, this is Ben, er-" Hagrid glanced at the younger wizard, floundering momentarily at the lack of last name, but the only help he received from that direction was a rather blank look; carrying on quickly, he finished, "Ben. And Ben, this is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore."

"I am pleased to meet you," Ben said courteously, bowing in his familiar way, hands in sleeves held across his torso and braid tipping to the slant of his back.

"The pleasure is mutual," Dumbledore responded, standing behind his desk in a sudden flare of rainbow-colored robes and extending a hand. Ben stepped forward and shook it while Dumbledore continued, a welcoming smile on his face, "I've heard a bit about you, I admit, and all of it good."

Releasing the hand, Ben took a pace back and inclined his head. "You as well, Headmaster."

"All exaggerated, I'm sure," Dumbledore chortled, seating himself once more. "You've met Harry, I gather?"

Again, Harry had to smile over his distraction when Ben turned his way, blue eyes meeting his. "I have." The older wizard smiled a bit. "Mrs. Weasley was a good host to both of us, yes?"

_That _brought out a genuine reaction: Harry smiled warmly, openly, even as he shrugged a little. "She always is," he admitted – with pride, despite feeling a little awkward at saying so aloud. Fawkes let out a happy coo – the phoenix really was in a beautiful stage right now, Harry thought, his trill nearly musical.

"And I believe Fawkes agrees." Dumbledore pet the bird's crest fondly. "He has always been an excellent judge of character, of which the Weasleys possess in admirable quality. Now," he seemed to shift gears, eyes coming to rest on the young wizard before him, "what brings you here today – and would you like a lemon drop?"

"Thank you." The younger wizard accepted and placed the candy in his mouth with such gravity that, despite his preoccupation, Harry was hard-pressed to contain sudden amusement. "As I told Hagrid, it concerns the centaurs."

Of course, Ben retained all his grace by speaking without the slightest hint of a lemon drop-induced slur.

"They are very ill," the wizard continued, meeting Dumbledore's eyes – seriously, but calmly, too, in stark contrast to the agitated, shifting form of the large man beside him. "For several weeks, I helped them. I started a quarantine."

An illness among the centaurs? A quarantine? Harry couldn't help but goggle a bit in blank surprise – how could this have been going on without anyone knowing? It was true, Hagrid hadn't taken any of his classes near the Forbidden Forest for a while, but...what about the rest of the professors? And did Dumbledore know? Harry glanced in the old wizard's direction – but his expression was difficult to read.

"But the illness spreads," Ben went on evenly. "The quarantine did not stop it, and I can't stop it. I can only heal the symptoms." He paused a moment in steady quiet. Then:

"I tell you officially for the centaurs of this illness, and I request to make the quarantine also to the castle. No wizards to enter the Forest."

And after this pronouncement, Ben met the Headmaster's gaze with complete patience, as if he had all the time in the world to wait for him to absorb the entirety of the situation – when to Harry, it seemed this was rather a _big_ problem to be going on with. One that deserved a little more – rush, or worry. Or at least a raised voice, or _some_thing. Something more than Ben's ever-present calm.

"Ah," Dumbledore murmured – finally, after a long moment of stillness, wherein the only sounds in the office came from Hagrid's motions, Harry's slight shifting, and the airy tick of a silver septet of clocks lining the mantel. Harry and Hagrid watched the Headmaster; the Headmaster's eyes fixed attentively on Ben. Lines of care etched his visage like spiderwebs. "I am very sorry to hear that. Very sorry, indeed," he said with true regret. "On behalf of Hogwarts' staff, let me extend an open offer of help. Is there anything the Herd requires?"

Ben shook his head. "Only that you enter not."

The Headmaster tapped a long finger on the desk. Words delicate and immutable as the clocks, he asked, "This command comes directly from the Herd?"

Harry couldn't fathom the look of understanding that Ben directed Dumbledore's way, and that Dumbledore seemed to accept with an unsurprised nod of his own.

"The Elder, yes," Ben said. "The younger Herdleaders change this, possibly-"

"That Magorian," Hagrid grumped suddenly, surprising Harry. He turned to his friend in time to catch him shaking his head and crossing his arms in a display of disapproval. "It's time he loosened up a bit 'bout us wizards. I know he likes tradition, but I always thought he'd put the Herd 'bove that sorta mess. He needs to let us in there to help-"

Ben raised a brow mildly. "It is my command also."

Ben's comment to the disgruntled man knocked the wind right out of his sails; Dumbledore's finger paused in its rhythm; and Harry, too, turned to the foreign wizard at the unexpected response, beginning to feel like a spectator at a ping-pong match. A very important, high-stakes ping-pong match.

Which he was a spectator to – why? Not that he _minded_, but...

"What?" Hagrid asked, bewildered. "But Ben, I though' yeh were helpin' 'em. How can yeh agree with th' Elder on this, when yeh're the one tellin' us about it in the first place – fer that matter," he continued, a bit accusatory but with the tone of someone making a dawning realization, "what're yeh doin' breaking yeh're own quarantine?" And he backed away from Ben as if warding off sudden contamination.

Though he'd like to say he was braver than that, a brief scare went up Harry's spine at the thought of catching whatever this illness was, that Ben – who'd gained major points in Harry's book with the way he touched his scar and just _vanished _all the pain – couldn't heal, and that forced the centaurs, a reclusive race with animosity towards wizardkind – as an understatement – into alerting Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive.

"Do not worry." Ben held up a hand in a placating gesture, the long sleeve draping in a low swoop of brown cloth –

- a long and brown cloak -

"I am not sick. I have skill to stay healthy. But I am not certain that the wizards, here, or the children, will not be sick also-"

Harry heard Ben's explanation only vaguely over the sudden recognition pounding its way to frightful realization in his brain. How could he not have made the connection sooner? Frantically, he tried to catch Dumbledore's gaze.

"Harry? Is something the matter?"

Oh, no – not like _that_. He wasn't supposed to come out and _ask_, not with Hagrid looking at him funny and Ben standing right there, in long brown robes just like those he couldn't remember before – but now, with the living example standing right in front of him to jog his memory, he _could._ And he was trying very hard not to let the sudden accusation scream across his face – _you were with Voldemort!_

"Er, no, nothing," Harry was forced to say lamely. But he couldn't say otherwise, not with three sets of eyes locked on him, one of which couldn't be trusted – and how easily Ben had worked his way into their midst -

"Yeh sure?" Hagrid asked, and the concern was nice and good and all, but right now Harry just wished he would shut up.

Until an idea came to him.

"Actually," Harry said instead of the angry accusations held just on the edge of his tongue, "My head's still not that great." He rubbed his scar and added a grimace for effect, and Hagrid seemed to believe him, which was good...but nonetheless made him feel guilty and undeserving of his friend's sudden look of sympathy. Well, it _was _true in a way, his scar _did _still hurt, just not as much as would merit a trip to the hospital wing – "Professor," he turned to the Headmaster, "thanks for talking with me, but would it be all right if I came back later to finish up? I'd like to stop in at the hospital wing before Quidditch practice this afternoon."

Dumbledore gave Harry a look a little too penetrative for comfort. But Harry didn't squirm, just hoped somehow that the Headmaster could sense his sudden revelation, could understand that he'd come tell him later, just as soon as Ben was gone -

"All right, Harry. Would eight o'clock be satisfactory?"

"Yeah, er, yes," Harry tried not to sigh with relief, or look too eager to go while he stood and gathered his things. By eight o'clock, he'd have Ron and Hermione in on the case, and maybe with some concrete proof to show Dumbledore. Something to link Ben with Voldemort – Ben, who seemed like the very antithesis of violence, who Harry couldn't picture hurting a fly, but had somehow managed to pull the wool over their very eyes and without even really trying. They'd just welcomed him in, as if he was nothing more than a lost traveler taking care of his ailing father. Except now Harry knew that must have been a cover-up. He wondered if the old man was even sick. Maybe the reason Ben never let anyone into the room with Quinn was because he was really in there, fine as a fiddle, biding his time with Ben until they could strike. Laughing at how easy it was to fool the people who'd selflessly taken them in.

"I could help, if you wish," Ben offered.

Harry cursed that understated, foreign voice for sounding so believable and genuine. Of all the times to speak up – worse, yet, was that there was no denying Ben was good at what he did.

But maybe he picked that up from Voldemort – maybe he'd _made _Harry's scar hurt, somehow, so he could fool him somehow, get him ready for the evil wizard –

"That's alright, Ben. Thanks, though." He forced himself to glance at the wizard and smile, ignoring the unruffled expression he faced that suddenly seemed too unruffled, too serene – as if _some_body knew too much. "I don't want to bother you. I'll just go see Madame Pomfrey."

"As you wish."

With that last remark, Harry made his quick exit, saying one more bye to all three before setting off down the stairs. The door to the office closed behind him, and for a second he wondered – should he really be leaving Dumbledore and Hagrid in there, with what he knew now?

Then he reconsidered, scoffing a bit at himself. Dumbledore...was Dumbledore, and Hagrid was no pushover, either. They'd be fine, even if Ben _did _make a move, which didn't seem to be his intent. At least, not at the moment, he amended darkly.

At the bottom of the staircase, Harry barely let the gargoyle slide open before he was out of it, dashing down the halls without it appearing obvious that he was dashing over anything more important than being late to a class.

First order of business: find Ron and Hermione.

* * *

They sat in an empty classroom, Ron dangling his legs off a desk, Hermione sitting firmly on a wooden chair and knitting (a hat for Ron this time, not an elf, though Harry was keeping her secret on this matter), and both of them watching Harry pace abrupt, halting circuits into the stone floor, as every so often he'd stop in place, frowning, before launching once more into motion.

"I just wish I could remember _more_," he said in frustration, knowing he'd said it already but too genuinely – well, _frustrated_ to care.

With a careful air, Hermione began, "You know vagueness is part and parcel of dreams-"

"It wasn't a dream!" Harry stopped, facing her with a scowl. Clearly denying the urge, she finally gave in and rolled her eyes at him.

"I know you _think _that, Harry, but-"

Letting out a wordless huff, Harry started pacing again. Hermione sighed. Clear shouts drifted into and out of their hearing, and every so often a spell-propelled snowball impacted the windows of the classroom with a loud _thump_; Seamus and Dean had started something of a Gryffindor-wide snowball fight on the wide stretch of flat land between the lake, Forest, and Hogwarts nearly an hour ago. It seemed like they'd finally enticed the giant squid to their side, if the sudden shrieking laughter and victorious battle cries were anything to go by.

"You believe me, don't you, Ron?" Harry suddenly rounded on his friend, who blinked, startled, with a deer-in-the-headlights look.

"Well, sure I do," he said, somewhat hesitantly and casting an apologetic look towards Hermione before turning back to Harry. "Come on, mate, don't look at me like that – I said I do, and I do."

"Right. Turn me into the bad guy," Hermione sniffed, her needles resuming a furious clicking which she nonetheless talked over, eyes fixed firmly upon her work. "It's not that I don't believe in you, Harry, but I'm trying to point out some very real factors you should take into consideration. You say you remember his robe – but what about the rest of him? Can you be sure of his face?"

Harry frowned. "Well, no, but-"

"And what about the location? Or the day?" she continued relentlessly. "You said he's been helping the centaurs, which sounds like a pretty reliable alibi to me – there would be plenty of witnesses. Who's to say he wasn't really with them all this time?"

"Alright, I don't know!" Harry said crossly, "but that doesn't mean he can't have worked it out somehow."

"He _was _always drifting in and out at home," Ron put in helpfully. Hermione shot him a sour look, then met Harry's stubborn gaze with another sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment; when she opened them, she set down her needles, leaning forward earnestly.

"Just calm down a bit, Harry, alright?" she said kindly.

"I _am _calm-"

She raised an eyebrow. He pressed his lips together and looked to the side.

"I'll try," he said finally. "I just – why would you think I'd lie about this?"

"Is that what you think?"

Harry turned partially to see that now she'd raised both eyebrows at him. When he didn't say anything, she frowned a bit, but it was more a gesture of thoughtfulness than anything.

"I _don't _think you're lying. I don't know why you'd think that so easily, though maybe you ought to give Ron and me a little more credit than that."

Harry stopped his pacing and shifted guiltily. Ron was close enough to pat his shoulder gingerly, and did so, which earned him a small, somewhat guilty but grateful smile.

Meanwhile, Hermione continued, "I'm just trying to reason this out – be a bit of a devil's advocate, if you will. Frankly, I'm as curious as you are; if what you say is true, then it could explain a lot of Ben's strange behavior-"

* * *

The low sick swoop in his gut strikes on his descent.

Midway between stairs, Obi-Wan sucks in a breath and fixes his eyes to the wall, no longer seeing the couple of students eying him curiously on their way up the staircase, nor the figure in the portrait trying to reach out of its frame and prod him with his miniature lance. He _reaches_ into that feeling-

Too late.

With the booming crunch and groan of rock screeching against rock, the impact doesn't reach its final echoes before he's flashing down the stairs to the nearest classroom, waving open the door, the Force quickening his dash past younglings who haven't time even to begin turning around before he flings a hand to the window, shattering the colorful stained glass in time to leap between falling shards, touching down on the sill, half in, half out, and illuminated in a thousand reflected colors for only a fraction of a moment –

– before he launches himself from the thirteenth-story tower window.

* * *

Deep and shaking as thunder, a sudden rumble crashed and rocked through the castle, reverberating up from below, shivers quaking underfoot.

"What the-"

They ran to the window, only to find it obscured by big, blossoming clouds of smoke, hot even through the glass. Harry pressed against it frantically, eyes darting into the fog – then he heard it, faint at first but growing in intensity like the crescendo of a siren: terrified – _pained – _shrieks rising out of the roiling clouds.

Ron cried, "But what the bloody hell _happened?_"and beside him with a hand to her mouth, Hermione gasped in horrified realization, "Most of Gryffindor was out there-"

A sudden streak of white-blue light cut through the smoke, a single flash like lightning – and was gone. But it was enough. Enough for all of them to see a familiar face illuminated in the glow.

Harry gripped his wand; gritted his teeth, felt anger surge through him, and growled,

"Ben."

* * *

He rolls to his feet and into chaos.

Emotions rocket against his mind – he cuts his way through them with as much seamless efficiency as his sabre swathes the mist in his path. Most of the children are only startled –

Most. But not all.

A girl starts violently when he crouches beside her, brushing his hand over the bloody smears on her friend's forehead, who lays, groaning quietly, in a cushion of snow. A moment at the injured girl's side, then he's up again, skimming over the snow with Force speed, listening with Force hearing, to pinpoint the source of the disturbance. The smoke begins to rise, clearing his field of vision – to the right, witches and wizards are trickling from the castle in clusters of greater frequency – behind him, the younglings – and to the left –

His steps slow. To the left...

There!

His sabre hums a battle cry, its light an unmistakable beacon – and it draws the droideka like a moth.

But he's no flame – in his bones the Unifying Force sings a chilling dirge, and he knows _this, _this droideka that shouldn't be here, that a castle full of wizards is in no way equipped to deal with, that a single Jedi alone isn't equipped to deal with – this droideka is the very real result of the foreboding swelling inside him ever since he left to collect his Master.

This droideka should not be on this planet. This droideka is _wrong._

A dark smudge against the snow, the droid recoils its blasters, coils itself roundly with the springy ease of smooth machinery and rolls towards him – rapidly, unerringly. Obi-Wan raises his sabre – slowly, deliberately. And waits. His eyes narrow. he sinks to his knees. He lets everything unnecessary fade – everything but the potent cocktail of Force and adrenaline filling his senses and the sight of that compact black ball nearing, nearing, closing in...He'll need this focus –

– _live in the moment, Obi-Wan –_

– he'll need this focus if he's to stave off a _Jedi-killer _a droideka.

So intent is he on the coming threat that the peripheral flash of purple light jetting towards him clips his sleeve as he dodges, knee-jerk and quick. He turns halfway, sees the three young wizards who were his hosts, and stares, unblinkingly, at the boy's outstretched wand from which the spell came – the boy who watches him angrily, and his friends, and all three of them are talking but he doesn't have time for this –

"GO!" he shouts, but they don't move. He glances with a barely there move of his head at the droideka -if it uncurls to shoot now, there's no way it'll miss these three at such close range. He looks back to the three – this time when he reiterates his command of "Go BACK!" there's a heavy dose of suggestion laced in the words – he realizes belatedly that neither time he spoke in their language – and it's suggestion enough to send all of them moving. But too slowly –

A wide wave of his arm pushes them to the ground in time to stop the first volley of blaster fire from striking them. Another push keeps them down while he vaults over them, forced to backtrack closer to the mass of wizards while the Force gives him _just _enough of an edge to outrace, for a split second, the blaster fire; he gets in front of it, _whirls _and deflects it, six rapid cuts of his sabre so quick the sound blurs into half as many.

The last two clip the fringe of his hair; involuntary shivers raise the hair of his neck and arms.

Then he's sprinting forward again, away from the witches and wizards, away from the three in the snow whom he releases from the press of the Force only once he's passed them by a good distance. And all the while, flashes of red blaster fire follow his progress like darts – some he deflects, and they sizzle and melt the snow where they touch. Some he avoids, varying his path in rabbit-like zig-zags, but always with an eye towards drawing the fire away from the castle.

And though he'd like to think he were truly drawing it away of his own design, he knows the truth of it is that it's the _droideka_ bearing down upon _him._

_

* * *

_  
When he could get up again, Harry clambered quickly to his feet, distractedly wiping snow off his chilled face partially numbed lips, mind in a state of suspended disbelief. His wand was still in his grip; but he didn't raise it, instead helping Ron and Hermione stand hastily. They shared a glance, followed by an unspoken decision; whatever suspicions Harry had or didn't have could be dealt with later. Ben clearly just saved them from those – whatever they were. _Lasers, _and that _robot_, which was unreal, like something out of a science-fiction movie...

It was harder to doubt Ben, too, when he was obviously leading the robot away from the castle.

"Come on," Harry urged, and they started to run towards where Ben was already pulling away in the distance, between the lake and Forest. Harry heard someone shout after them – Hagrid, he thought – but none of them stopped to look back. The wet of the snow seeped into his robes, cooling his skin in the wind and starting a faint shiver up and down his body, and he had the sense of mind to wonder where Dumbledore was during all this, and why hadn't he stopped it yet?

A loud _crunch_; in mid-air, Ben deflected a laser into the snow-covered canopy, landed, and sprang again when the robot ducked into a sudden roll, beelining towards him with alarming speed and whirring right through the space Ben had vacated only a moment before. Then Harry must have blinked or something, because for a second he lost track of Ben completely; when he saw him again, he was a good thirty feet closer to the water's edge, sword raised and backing away. The robot unrolled, smooth and quick, and sent a barrage of lasers at the wizard. Harry hadn't seen a gun fired except in movies, but he rather thought these lasers were faster. And he didn't see how _any_one, let alone calm, tranquil Ben could be dodging them.

But the wizard moved like a whirlwind, sleek and hawk-like and airborne, twisting and leaping in acrobatic maneuvers the likes of which Harry'd never seen. The robot shot left, scuttled to the side to avoid deflected blasts, and shot right; Ben deflected, moved backwards, and slid neatly out of the way. The robot coiled and rolled like a pinball shot from the starting spring; Ben turned and ran towards the water. The robot unrolled and, before Ben had fully turned to face it, shot dozens of bolts from each metal arm, machine-gun style; Ben deflected some, dodged one or two then flattened himself to the ground while a smattering whizzed by just over the top of his head, following his progress – and just when it seemed like he'd be caught, he suddenly thrust himself backwards in an inhuman move, landing on his feet once more to redirect the unending onslaught in a shower of red sparks against his glowing white-blue blade. And all of this done in the space of mere heartbeats.

Frankly, all of this – the attack, the robot, Ben – had a certain unreal quality that Harry was vaguely sure would catch up to him later, when the adrenaline wore off and he had the time to question things like the utter alien-ness of the robot, the strange lasers it fired and the stranger glowing sword Ben used to deflect them, and –

– and when the bloody hell did Ben turn into this unrecognizable thing?

Because there was no way someone who could do _that _was an ordinary wizard. Not a wizard, and maybe not even –

– human.

* * *

Before the opening even exists, Obi-Wan takes three strong strides, _leaps_, and hurls his sabre like a superheated lance towards the droideka – which, turning, presents that very opening that Obi-Wan foresaw in a flash of Unifying Force.

The sabre severs electrical wiring like a firecracker set off inside the droideka, the sounds of popping and spitting cracking across the snow as the entire upper right half of the machine splits from the rest at Obi-Wan's precise twisting of the Force through his fingers. The droideka's red eyes narrow in an eerie resemblance of humanity even as it reacts to the loss of two arms with the coldness of the inorganic thing it is; reaching across with its left in a snakelike curve of shining black and silver bones, it snatches at the hilt of Obi-Wan's sabre before the slivered-off chunk of itself can hit the ground.

Turning his palm towards his body and curling his fingers inward in a clawlike gesture, Obi-Wan recalls his sabre, spinning it in long vertical loops to deflect the droideka's blaster fire – reduced, with fewer arms from which to fire, but still a threat. He feels the steady heat of his sabre on his brow as he catches the blasts and holds his blade close to his body, defensively backing towards the water, senses razor-sharp and body nearly trembling with repressed energy. The Force is a chorus in his mind, powerful and resonating.

But the droideka is superhuman as well, and its onslaught is unrelenting. Obi-Wan ducks another barrage of fire, then throws himself into a roll to the side when, nearly instantaneously, the droideka whizzes into a lightning-quick ball. Rising to his feet, Obi-Wan sprints with Force-fleetness towards the water, finally reaching its edge even as the droid hunts him down. It uncoils in halo-like flashes of sparks, resuming its attack.

But Obi-Wan's watching those sparks, and planning.

And that's when he feels the lake behind him rise, and rise, and tower behind him like a living curtain –

* * *

Midway across the field, Harry unceremoniously, unexpectedly, jerked to a halt.

"What the-"

He had a moment to feel the body-bind settle over him, a moment to turn and see McGonagall on the other end of that spell and for his face to contort into righteous indignation before he was caught in place, speechless and unable to move. But before he could fall, he felt the large, rough hands of Hagrid grabbing him quickly, holding him steady and pulling him back against another body with the unmistakably frizzy hair of Hermione; it was too much to hope for, he thought sourly, that they'd let Ron, at least, go help.

"Sorry, Harry, Hermione, Ron," Hagrid was saying distractedly, picking them up and slinging them fireman-style over his shoulder, which he then looked over frequently as he ran back towards the castle. "Dumbledore don't want yeh close to that thing, yeh can't fight it –" Then, worriedly, "I hope Dumbledore can fight it, I've never seen summat like that in my life, not natural at all –"

Unable to reply or even move, Harry could only fume mutely and desperately take in the bouncy view his position on Hagrid's shoulder offered: that of Albus Dumbledore, nearly flying across the snow in a streak of gaudy rainbow robes towards the flashing red and steely, smooth black threat of the robot, McGonagall close on his heels, sprinting like a woman thirty years her junior. And behind them, Ben – twisting and turning like a contortionist, leaping and spinning like a martial arts master, and deflecting those beams of light with the deadly accuracy of a lifelong swordsman.

And – slowly, inevitably – being driven back to the water.

Hagrid stumbled suddenly on the snow, jostling Harry uncomfortably on what had to be Ron's belt digging into his ribs. So it was that by the time Hagrid righted himself, Harry could only gape – inwardly, as his mouth was still frozen – at the towering tidal wave that had appeared out of nowhere behind Ben, rising even as he watched, and connected by the thinnest trail of sparkling blue light to Dumbledore's wand. The robot was twitching and chittering like an angry animal, still firing on Ben but now swiveling, dart-like, to the pair of wizards joining the attack. As the water grew higher still, McGonagall adding a her spell to the Headmaster's, the robot finally gave in and sent the first volley of blasts towards the wizards.

And it was then that several things happened at once.

Dumbledore raised his non-wand hand, throwing up a far-off shield of sorts that made the air shimmer.

The blasts went through the shield.

Ben was on the other side of those blasts, between them and the wizards, throwing himself in front of them and shunting most of them off –

– Hagrid jumped over a pile of snow, so Harry missed the moment when McGonagall cried out, giving him the sinking feeling that Ben had finally missed some of the blasts –

– and, given a clear path to the robot with Ben out of the way, the tidal wave came crashing down, reaching out with a giantesque watery hand and _pulling _the robot under, still firing laser after laser, then digging in its spidery legs as it was forcibly dragged down the shore in a screech of protesting metal.

One last barrage of red light, and the machine was sucked under in a final crashing wave.

Heart pounding in his chest, Harry watched the surface of the lake bubble and thrash – the robot must have been fighting still, even fully submersed. Harry's eyes flickered frantically as he took in the scene from his unmoving body, wishing he hadn't been frozen in the first place, hoping whatever that wave of Dumbledore's was that it had worked, hoping that everyone outside during the robot's first attack was okay...

Dumbledore and McGonagall were sprinting to the water's edge, and as Hagrid got farther away it was harder and harder to tell what was going on, but it looked like they were shouting. In the midst of all the action, Harry's eyes followed their path, then further, to where their target, Ben, stood still and unmoving.

Before they reached him, he leapt into the air, his inhuman strength taking him over the water, hand thrown out and making a dip in its surface, sinking into the concavity, glowing sword in hand, sinking further as the water curved unnaturally to accept him –

– then, with a slick _schlup _and a _pop_, the lakewater whooshed in over Ben's head, covering him in a split second and obscuring him from sight.

* * *

As the wave crashes in liquid thunder over the droideka, he knows it won't be enough.

So while it claws and writhes against the water's pull, Obi-Wan prepares himself for the dive – taking a long, last breath of air, then taking away his need for air at all as he induces a hasty semi-stasis, all the while deflecting the last of the droid's attacks and rapidly, continuously shunting off the constant stream of pain from the blaster burn on his wrist.

And though he successfully completes each of these tasks, it's slapdash; he doesn't do them all well.

As he finds out ten minutes into his cold, dark, underwater dive, when the droid, targeting his wrist, manages to hit it again, jolting him from his concentration and his hold on his sabre and sending shivers of pain up and down his arm, through his spine, in his mind.

It's all he can do not to gasp aloud and drown himself, then to send a wild Force-push the droideka's way, stalling it long enough to propel himself behind a wall of lake-floor rock even as his sabre is flung away and lost in the near-perfect darkness.

Sinking to the ground, Obi-Wan cradles his wrist, eyes half-shut and watering, brows drawn together, and divests himself of the pain as best he can. The Force still sings through his every nerve, but here, at the chilled bottom of the lake, the part of it made up of the Living is stronger – too strong for him, when he can't handle its newness, its wildness in the midst of a life-or-death fight against the droideka. If Qui-Gon were here, he'd –

The Force pulses a warning seconds before the droideka appears in his line of vision, its underwater approach woefully sluggish compared to its land speed, but quick enough to trap him inside this shelter if he doesn't get out _now –_

Surging from the hole with Force-speed, Obi-Wan stretches his uninjured arm out for a nearby chunk of rock half his size and twice as wide, hurling it into the droideka's side. With its impaired mobility, the machine can't get out of the way quick enough, and its metal screeches gratingly as it's sandwiched forcibly between the boulder and the very crevice Obi-Wan just exited. Several of its limbs protrude from behind the boulder, twitching spasmodically like severed lizard tails as it tries to free itself. Arm extended straight and tensed, palm flat outward, Obi-Wan keeps it there with difficulty, buying himself time.

Underwater like this, Obi-Wan has the definite advantage in maneuverability; while he can draw upon the Force to speed him through the water, the droid, built primarily for land-combat, has no such fallback. And as long as they're under the lake, then the civilians above-ground aren't in any danger, so his attention is no longer divided. Though he wonders why the old wizard and his second-in-command haven't attempted to help further; the Headmaster's instincts for what Obi-Wan was trying to do – lead the droideka below-water – were as quick-witted as many Force-sensitives, and he would have thought they'd both continue their attack, having seen him dive below to further his own assault...

But the droideka isn't alive, and it doesn't feel the bone-deep fatigue Obi-Wan does.

Not even the echo of far-off movement shimmers through the murky gray-green darkness of the freezing water; any fish have long since fled the scene, and plant-life is scarce this far down; the only motion comes from the thrashings of the droid, which has succeeded in prying loose another limb from the rock. Knowing he's helping the droideka, Obi-Wan nonetheless loosens his hold on the rock, trying to channel some raw Living Force into his wrist-wound, which has blackened into wispy-edged circles at the two points of impact, then spread tendrils of the same blackness up his arm and down his hand, shaped like the shadowed crevices of cracked and too-dry earth. But the Living Force again surges through his mind in pulses he can't fully channel; curling inward convulsively over the wound, he has to let it go. Swallowing around the pain, he tucks his wrist, unhealed, in the obi of his waterlogged tunic, sending a violent wave of the Force back at the droid when it suddenly pushes outward, nearly breaking free of its temporary prison. Through the darkness, he catches the flash of an inhuman red eye before he slams the boulder back in place.

Tiny bubbles wash away from his trembling hand.

Slowly, he swims closer to the pinned droideka, lowering his hand to his side but maintaining his grip on the Force even as his fingers touch the sleek metal tube clipped to his belt. It's not his own, so he'll need more concentration than he can spare now to light it. But if he can use it, then...

Decided, Obi-Wan readies himself for an attack whose outcome hinges on his ability – or not – to use his Master's lightsabre. If it lights, then he should be able to destroy the droid in one slice, from this range, and have this done and finished before he weakens any further. And if not...

One-handed, Obi-Wan grips Qui-Gon's sabre, swims into range – releases the rock, from which the droideka instantly springs in a coiling mass of clicking black limbs – reaches for the Force, for his Master's presence –

– raises his arm, and presses the sabre's switch.

* * *

Lying on his back in the snow, Harry had the perfect view for when the sky turned red.

Having deposited them in the snow, Hagrid left them with a distracted, "Now you all stay put," and hurried off, presumably to help either Dumbledore or those professors tending to the injured students and rounding up those who tried to get closer to the lake. Still trapped in McGonagall's full body-bind, Harry couldn't even tell Hagrid there was no reason to caution the three of them – it wasn't like they could go anywhere anyway.

So he was just beginning to stew in his irritation at being unable to _do _anything, either to help the other Gryffindors _or _Dumbledore, when something like static crackled in red streaks across the sky. Stuck still, he could only scream a warning in his mind and watch mutely as the red flashed once more, like an old television screen tuning into a particularly fuzzy channel, before solidifying with an electric _snap _into a glowing red dome.

_That _got everyone's attention.

By the time the frightened and confused cries reached a crescendo and Harry was nearly desperate with the desire to be free of the spell, a shadow loomed momentarily overhead: McGonagall, waving her wand briskly over his body and looking very grim.

"Up you go, Mr. Potter," she said, obscured and red-haloed by the dome's light, voice a tad raspy as she obviously recovered her breath, before moving on to Hermione and Ron.

Sitting up stiffly and rubbing feeling back into his limbs, Harry nonetheless got to his feet quickly, following the path of McGonagall's progress as she strode off rapidly – and Harry saw what, or rather, who, was responsible for the quieting alarm: Dumbledore, walking calmly among them, helping students and teachers all around with skilled wandwork and comforting words.

But in the end, Harry realized with a low, sinking feeling, he looked just as trapped as the rest of them.

Whatever the dome was, a quick pivot on his feet showed it covered nearly the entire Hogwarts grounds from castle to Forest, Forest to lake, lake to castle. Only Hagrid's hut and the landmarks themselves – castle, Forest, and lake – had escaped it; all the clear field in between was covered in the red. Triangular in shape, at each of the three junctures the dome pinched downwards, as if anchored by something Harry couldn't quite see. From those points, it bubbled upwards and curved roundly, casting everything outside it into a translucent, pale red. Over everything emanated a distinct, constant hum that he could feel vibrate down to his bones, even as it made the hair on his arms stand on end.

Ron and Hermione came to stand beside him, looking as stunned as he felt.

"What _is _it?" Ron asked faintly. "Hermione?"

"It's not any spell I've ever seen or heard of," she replied, just as unsure, eyes cast skyward.

"...Voldemort," Harry murmured darkly, to which Ron and Hermione glanced at him with alarm. He, too, looked down from the dome, past the red glow it cast on his friends' – and his own – features. "He hasn't done anything since fourth year – maybe this is what he's been working on all this time."

He could see when the surprise started leaving them and the logic kicked in. "That'd make sense," Ron agreed, like Harry pulling out his wand and holding it tightly. All three of them began surveying the borders beyond the dome.

"It's certainly possible, at least in terms of the barrier," Hermione murmured, then cast a quick spell that created a mirror-shaped circle. Peering over her shoulder, Harry saw it acted like a giant magnifying glass, which she moved about at will to zoom in on sections of the dome.

She glanced back at Harry. "Here," she said, and cast the spell once for Harry and Ron, too, then returned to observing the dome. "What I don't understand," she continued, "is – a robot, made by V-Voldemort? That's too Muggle for him, don't you think? And what's the point of it? If they're keeping us here for Voldemort, or if he's here himself, why wouldn't they have done something by now?"

Harry and Ron traded dark looks. "I don't know," Harry said, holding his wand up and ready and feeling an ominous weight settle over them, "but we'll be ready, when he does."

But as time wore on and ten minutes passed and there was still no sign of any activity outside the dome, they began to grow more worried and less inclined to be stationary.

"Come on," Harry finally said, "Let's go see if Dumbledore knows anything –"

"Hey, you three!" Hagrid's loud voice chose that moment to boom across the field. Looking to the man, Harry saw that Dumbledore was indeed already gathering all the thirty-some students and teachers in clustered groups, setting them with wands in hand and circled like wagon trains, protectively guarding the injured but with wands pointed outward. Hagrid gestured hurriedly with both hands; still watchful, Harry, Hermione, and Ron obeyed his summons, even as several professors, McGonagall and Snape among them, broke away from the group and spread out to the corners of the dome, wands out and casting spells – Harry saw Snape shoot out a jet of blue light that made a terrific screech and burst into a hundred tiny flares upon contact with the dome, forcing the wizard to throw himself to the ground to avoid the sparks.

Caught between an ugly satisfaction and reluctant disappointment at the git's failed spell, Harry wasn't sure what to think. In the end, he just turned around and ignored the matter entirely.

Seeing that they'd heard him, Hagrid just gave them a last beckoning wave before crouching down in a massive bulk to talk to a little first-year, crying in the snow. But hurrying quickly towards them was Neville, silhouette rounded by the bulk of his snow-gear and red-faced from either cold or exhilaration.

"There you are," he gasped, putting gloved hands to his knees only for a moment before turning back the way he came and calling over his shoulder, "Come on, Dean got hit-"

Alarmed at the worry they could hear in Neville's voice, the three lost no time following behind his scrambling path around other students and teachers, talking amongst themselves but every so often with the strong timbre of Dumbledore's counterpoint. When they found Dean, it wasn't a pretty sight – his entire left leg from the knee down was covered in blood, the skin torn and ragged in places. Dean himself was wide-eyed and breathing in rapid, shallow, pained breaths, staring frantically at the face of Seamus, who'd crouched over his torso where he lay to block his line of sight to the injury and was busy talking a random stream of desperate, determined nonsense to keep his friend's mind busy. Professor Sprout, dirt-stained and obviously fresh from the greenhouse, was conducting the healing process, Lavender busily following her snapped instructions with the air of someone partially in shock.

"Why hasn't Pomfrey-" Hermione began frantically.

"Can't get in," Seamus cut her off without looking, then snapped his fingers to regain Dean's attention when his eyes drifted towards his leg.

"See, over there," Neville pointed. Harry followed his finger and was surprised to see, now that he was closer to the castle, a cluster of professors, Pomfrey among them, attempting to break the barrier from the outside, and what looked like Filch and the Bloody Baron guarding the entrance to the castle – as well as keeping any other students inside. Every so often there was a flicker of silvery mist against the dome, and a fizz of sparks –

"The ghosts can't get in either," Harry realized.

"Or house-elves," Ron added grimly. "See Dobby?"

And indeed, the long bobbing blue ears of the house-elf himself could be seen flopping around the knees of the professors every so often, though it was difficult to see much in detail from this distance.

Dean let out a long groan, calling their attention back. Hermione began wringing her fingers together and saying, "I wish I knew an anesthetic spell-"

"Where's Severus?" Sprout snapped suddenly, the most agitated Harry'd ever seen her. She took a glance away from Dean's leg to search the area. "Or Albus. Somebody get me one of them now-"

"No need, Pomona."

Like parting the sea, all those clustered around Dean save Seamus, Lavender, and Sprout stepped back for Dumbledore, who immediately crouched down beside the boy, casting spell after quiet spell – slowly, Dean's eyes began to droop, his tension draining from his body. Watching Dumbledore's face, Harry found it determined and calm, to the point of near-expressionless; his hands were steady, and he didn't even glance once away from his work on Dean's leg despite the relative chaos going on around him. It would almost be enough for Harry to think that Dumbledore wasn't truly worried, or furious, or readying for a fight...

..._if _he hadn't been palpable with power.

Before Harry's eyes, Dean's leg began knitting itself back up, and a discreet wave of Spout's wand cleared away most of the blood from the snow; Harry felt relief start to fill him, when a chance glance toward the Forest drew his attention.

"Hermione, make that magnifying spell again," he urged her abruptly, grabbing her arm to alert her without looking and moving away from Dean.

Quick-witted, Hermione made the lens first and asked questions after. "What is it, Harry?" she asked, drawing up a quick lens for both Ron and her as well.

Swiveling the lens towards the Forest, Harry pinpointed what he saw after a few seconds of silence. "Here, come here," he urged, eyes on the two magnified figures approaching Forest-side. "Look."

Peering over either shoulder, Ron exclaimed, "Blimey, they're just like Ben-"

"Oh, Merlin, we forgot about Ben!" Hermione gasped suddenly, covering her mouth with a hand and spinning her own lens around to the lake. "No one can hold his breath that long-"

Harry glanced over once at Hermione's search of the lake, everything beyond it red-tinted by the dome, but didn't track his own lens away from the figures approaching them.

"Someone should tell Dumbledore-" Ron began, scrambling away through the snow, footsteps retreating in a rapid series of crunches.

Watching the two figures approach wasn't an easy task, Harry soon found – they ran with the same rapid speed Ben did, and every so often they seemed to flicker out of sight only to reappear large gaps of space ahead. Long robes fanning out behind them, the pair seemed to skim over the snow rather than touch it. Squinting, Harry was just deciding that the taller one was female, the smaller male when the man suddenly split off from the pair, veering off sharply towards the lake.

"Hermione-"

"Harry, look!" she interrupted, gesticulating urgently towards the lake. Torn, Harry hesitated only briefly before glancing away from his own lens and towards the water's edge, where he saw what had caught her attention.

"It's Ben!"

Magnified by the lens, sodden and restrained of movement, it was indeed the darkened hair of Ben bobbing above the surface of the lake, then emerging from its shallows, silhouette wraith-like in wetness-darkened robes strewn with bits of ropy, twisted seaweed, form hunched-over, washed, and darkened in the eerie red pall of the dome.

"He's all right!" Hermione cried in relief, the two new figures momentarily forgotten as they watched Ben pull slowly out of the water. There was no sign of his lighted sword, but there was also no sign of the robot that had chased him under. Which meant –

"He must have beaten it," Harry said in awe. "That robot. He must have short-circuited it in the water or something."

"Of course," Hermione agreed somewhat breathlessly, eyes fixed ahead on Ben as, now fully free of the water, slanted his shoulder to pull his brown robe off one-handed and dump it on the snow. "That's why he was bringing it to the water – like a hairdryer in a bathtub. He must be Muggleborn," she added smugly in an aside that would have been funny had the situation been less dire – but as it was, all he did was nod in complete agreement.

Then someone tapped his shoulder; startled, Harry jumped and turned in the direction of the guilty finger, which belonged to an excited-looking Ron.

"Sorry, Harry, but Dumbledore's about to talk with one of those people-" Ron gestured vaguely in the direction of the Forest to indicate the two figures, then pointed over his shoulder to where, true to his word, the Headmaster stood waiting at the edge of the dome closest to the lake, which the brown-robed woman was nearing rapidly. The other teachers, even McGonagall and Snape, still crouched among the students, ensuring their safety; but it was clear that, with the injuries mostly treated, both students and teachers alike were tuning in keenly to the coming conversation.

"Let's get a little closer," Harry whispered, Hermione and Ron nodding, and they surreptitiously made their way to the cluster of people nearest Dumbledore. They passed a heavily sedated Dean with Seamus and Lavender still crouched near; Neville, who was with them as well, rose when they passed.

"I want to hear this, too," he muttered, casting nervous glances to where Snape crouched, back to them, several yards away and hissing quiet orders at a pair of seventh years while he poured a potion down the throat of a third.

McGonagall gave them heavy frowns at their approach. "You will not interfere," she whispered sternly, tone like steel, "and you will stay behind me. _Now, _Mr. Potter."

Grumbling, Harry obeyed. Mostly.

In a quiet whipping of robes, the woman slowed, nearing the dome's boundary where Dumbledore waited. This close, Harry could see she was much older than he thought – sixties, maybe – with coils of black braids looping all around her slightly olive-toned face and dark eyes. Lines wrinkled a fine line down her forehead, in the middle of which a single red jewel rested. Underneath her robe, she wore dark brown pants, boots, and tunic very similar in cut if not color to Ben's. Attached to her belt was an unobtrusive gray tube.

The last several strides she took brought her to the edge of the dome where she stood, red-tinged and silent, with hands tucked in sleeves and composure an almost physical cloak. If there had been any doubt about her connection to Ben before, this cinched it – standing before an angered Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard alive, she looked as calm as an old matriarch at teatime.

The woman bowed at the waist, straightened, and spoke.

"Headmaster Dumbledore." Her voice was a cultured alto and smooth as polished marble. "I am Jedi Master Kor Vollei. Do any among you require further assistance?"

Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville shared a glance – Jedi?

"No." Even that one word was like restrained thunder – Harry was almost glad he couldn't see Dumbledore's face. Then, "Jedi Master Kor Vollei – if you know what this restraint is, I ask you to release us immediately."

Her face was impassive. "I cannot."

"You cannot."

"Not until my partner and I have secured the area." In the distance, the other wizard had nearly reached Ben.

"You will find," Dumbledore said calmly, "that no threat remains, save for in pieces at the bottom of the lake."

"You are correct," she says gravely, "in your assertion of the droideka's destruction; however, the threat," she shakes her head slightly, "has not passed."

The man and Ben had begun talking.

"And what threat remains, save for a barrier which keeps our Mediwitch from her patients, our students and teachers from the safety of our school?" Harry, Ron, and Hermione traded glances; for all that the barb was delivered in a measured, even voice, it sounded more threatening than any bellow.

But the woman was unaffected; shaking her head slowly, then pausing to dip it once in an expression of regret, she lifted her head and opened her eyes.

"There is a rogue Jedi on your planet. Like his Master, he has been touched by the Dark Side; and as was his Master, so must he be brought to justice. He is named Obi-Wan Kenobi. But to you, he is known as...

"...Ben."


	6. eclipse

-six-  
_-eclipse-_

He clips Qui-Gon's sabre to his belt, leaves the split halves of the droid resting at the bottom of the lake, and kicks to the surface, mind clear of thought and a faint buzzing in his ears. The surface glimmers with the warmth and whites of reflected sunshine and snow, but the deep, icy chill of the water remains, threatening to freeze the breath in his lungs should he lapse in his touch of Force-given warmth for even a moment. As the darkness lifts all around him, he becomes aware of the approach of many lifeforms; fish returning to normalcy, yes, but also...

He pauses in his ascent to bow to the three figures hovering at the edge of darkness and visibility. Fish-tailed and wild-haired, their skin glistens like scales; the closest one, a man with fierce eyes, raises a palm outward and nods, a gesture Obi-Wan returns before continuing on his way. The aquatic people don't follow, but neither do they leave, watching the kick of his boots all the way up until he can see the sky through the water, and breaks its surface.

The first thing he undoes is the semi-stasis; he takes several long, gasping breaths as his body remembers how to function at a normal rate. Still staving off the cold and the creeping pain of his wrist, Obi-Wan twists towards the shoreline and begins swimming, injured arm tucked against his body and tendrils of the Force adding extra strength to his motions. The buzzing hasn't left his ears, and he has to blink, blearily, several times against the blurring in his vision. With the droideka gone, so, too, is his adrenaline seeping away, leaving an all-encompassing exhaustion worse than before the attack ever began.

Theoretically, the Force could sustain his body forever; but in reality, no living body can indefinitely handle the direct touch of the Force. Organic forms weren't made to handle it without end, and his body knows it. He can't continue this way much longer – it's not a question of weeks anymore, or even days, but hours.

But then all thoughts of his own health are gone beneath a body-wide flash of mixed dread and memory: a force field, expansive and dome-shaped, spans the majority of the field, with the very wizards and witches he was protecting trapped within.

A spike of remembered horror shoots anew through his heart. He's seen this kind of force field before. It's just like the one used to separate him and his Master, forcing Obi-Wan to prowling helplessness while his Master was stabbed through the chest...

"Padawan!"

Startled and surprised both at the term and at hearing Common spoken anywhere on this planet, Obi-Wan tears his gaze from the writhing redness to a far-off figure, approaching at a pace only sustainable with Force-speed, voice reaching his ears only through wind directed and enhanced by the Force.

It's a Jedi. A Jedi's Force presence is unmistakable. How hadn't he sensed him earlier?

A Jedi!

"Knight!" he calls, stretching his words on the wind until they, too, reach the Jedi's ears, "Help the wizards!" On the heels of his entreaty, he attaches a series of images to the word 'wizards,' enough to demonstrate what wizards are, should the Jedi not know, as well as who they are, in flashes of names and faces – a technique taught as early as the crèche for the immediate transfer of information from one Jedi to the next.

But the Knight or Master, whichever he may be, doesn't turn from his path. In fact, Obi-Wan catches a definite shake of the head.

No?

Having reached the shore's edge, Obi-Wan drags himself from the water under the burdensome weight of sodden robes. Angling his back, he reaches with his uninjured arm to unfasten the robe and slough it from his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground in a heavy, wet heap of cloth and bits of seaweed. Despite its coldness, Obi-Wan feels the lack of the robe in the faint wind's chill, and has to heat his body further from within.

His hands won't stop trembling...

He looks up; the Knight approaches.

"Padawan, are you injured?" He's a short man, humanoid, stocky, pale-faced, and red-haired with a long, thin mustache and age lines etched into the corners of his mouth. Light green eyes watch him carefully, calm expression tightened with hints of tension. They light upon Obi-Wan's wrist, resting safely in the folds across his waist between his outer and inner tunic.

"Blaster burns," Obi-Wan explains briefly, not untucking his wrist. "We need to free the wizards," he begins to turn towards the force field, saying, "Have you located the field generators?"

"Hold, Padawan."

Obi-Wan pauses, facing the Jedi once more who stands, face still largely untroubled, with hands now tucked in his sleeves. Obi-Wan shifts, brows coming together slightly.

"What is your name, Padawan?"

"Obi-Wan Kenobi, Knight...?"

"Master Pavrell," the Master corrects, to which Obi-Wan bows in acknowledgment. "Padawan Kenobi, I require your assistance. Do not worry about the force shield; my partner and I are responsible for it, and it protects the wizards, not contains them. You destroyed the droideka, but can't you feel the Force stirring? There is still danger present."

Obi-Wan's brow furrows slowly and he casts out his senses to the currents of the Unifying Force, feeling them smooth and warm against his mind, but agitated. It's true, he realizes; there's something off in the Force that speaks of an underlying danger as yet unaddressed. But it's nebulous and shifting, and he can't pinpoint from where this unease springs...

"I do feel something," Obi-Wan agrees gradually, keeping a thread of his touch to the Unifying Force active. "Something...elusive." He watches the Master sharply to keep the encroaching fogginess of his mind at bay. His body aches in protest, but he can't rest yet...

He opens his channel to the Force wider, drawing upon its essence and shivering.

"Exactly," the Master nods, gaze calmly traveling the landscape. "We cannot discern its source any more than you can, Padawan, and it is for this reason that we keep the wizards safe. They aren't equipped to deal with another droideka."

"No," Obi-Wan agrees quietly, taking in the large chunks of rock broken off from the walls of the castle – not enough to break a hole through its sides, but plenty sufficient to send that rock tumbling down on the students who'd been too near it. Seen through the force shield, the castle and wizards alike are tinted with red, and the smell of smoke and debris drifts over the landscape.

"As you can see, my partner is already explaining the situation."

As the Master's voice drifts through his ears, so too do Obi-Wan's eyes drift to the back of the Jedi woman, standing calmly on the outside of the barrier and speaking to the school's Headmaster, whose expression of composure was belied by the emotion swirling about him in active eddies.

"He won't be satisfied by it," Obi-Wan says, eyes on the old wizard, watching the subtle shift of facial expressions.

"No," the Master agrees, "But he will accept it. The safety of his school depends on it."

Obi-Wan watches them talk a moment more before looking sidelong at the other Jedi. "Master Pavrell. Do you have a way off this planet?"

"Off the planet?" The Master glances at him. "Of course. But you cannot leave now, Padawan. Come, we'll meet with Master Kor Vollei first before we leave to search out the source of the disturbance; your willing presence will serve to allay their fears, I think."

Obi-Wan hesitates for just a moment of unobserved scrutiny of the Master; calm-eyed, unemotional, the very picture of a composed Jedi Master, unmoved by the turmoil around him. What he feels must be said; the warning thrum of the Force will have it no other way, nor would he, even without its insistence...and therein lies the cause of his subtle wash of shame. "...of course. But I will not leave the castle, Master Pavrell."

The Master turns to him sharply. "Padawan, you must. My partner and I cannot do this alone; what would keep you here?"

Obi-Wan shakes his head slightly, though in denial of what, he isn't sure. "I cannot leave," the Force rises to a warning crescendo, "because my Master needs me here."

"Your Master?" the Jedi's eyes narrow; he faces Obi-Wan fully now. "Your Master is alive?"

Obi-Wan doesn't immediately reply, taking in the sudden spike in tension in the Master, the way he subconsciously straightens himself as if to loom from his lesser height.

"...yes," he answers finally. Something of his blooming caution must have crept through his weakened control onto the Force, for the Master lets out a breath, expression clearing instantly.

"Forgive my outburst, Padawan Kenobi. I was under the impression he had not survived your vessel's crash; in all truthfulness, we were certain neither of you had survived, or we should have contacted you sooner."

Obi-Wan nods silently, pressing his fingertips to his arms inside his sleeves.

"But that doesn't change what I've said. If your Master is injured, he must be left to his own devices. You serve the greater good, not your Master; you must understand this, do you not?"

"I understand," Obi-Wan replies, nodding in a semi-bow, "but I cannot leave. My instincts tell me to stay, and I must heed-" _my Master's teachings _"-them."

"Padawan," the Master's arms unfold from their resting position across his torso, and a frown deepens his age-lines. "Your instincts, too, must bow to the greater good. You will come with me, and we will eliminate this threat."

"I cannot, Master Pavrell."

For a moment, the Master simply stares at him, green eyes unblinking and brows raised at his disobedience. Obi-Wan meets his gaze without flinching. He grows more certain by the moment that his path is the right one the more he examines the feelings generating it. Is this how Qui-Gon feels facing down the Council?

Then the Master draws himself up to his full height, looking at Obi-Wan with a mix of stern, unpitying authority and compassion.

"Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, the Order Calls you to service!"

_...!_

A leaf shakes – then sweeps off in a sudden screaming wind; Obi-Wan feels lightheaded, swaying backwards a pace in shock. The Master's words shriek through his mind.

_The Order Calls you to service!_

His eyes widen, and he stares in disbelief at the Master, unyielding and upright, even as his shoulders slowly bow, processing faster than his mind what the ritual words entail. In all his years as Jedi, he's heard the ancient Call to obedience invoked only once – for a recently Masterless Padawan three years his junior, attacking several of the crèchelings in a fit of madness and nearer to the Dark Side than any he'd ever seen and be as yet unturned. In the end, the Padawan had pulled back from the Dark Side only long enough to kill herself, torn between too many pulling emotions and unable to bear the horrible guilt of knowing she was turning into the very thing her deceased Master had protected her against.

And this – _he needs this, too?_

Stunned, he feels the cold creeping into his skin and the black, grating burn of his wrist as his touch to the Force falters. Like one asleep, he sluggishly reasserts the connections, though he barely feels their warmth. His body curves. His eyes drop. As a marionette, he feels pulled on strings beyond his control as his joints and limbs articulate in concert to lower him first to one knee, then the other. His breath steams the crisp air like smoke clouds; his hands haven't lost their shake when he places them, palms-down and unfeeling, to the snow.

Obi-Wan bows to the force of ritual millennia-ancient, thick with tradition, and weighed by the nearly palpable presence of hundreds of thousands of Jedi, as if every one is a living shadow over his back, pressing him forward to obedience and the Light.

When his forehead touches the earth, Obi-Wan speaks.

"I answer the Call."

* * *

Ben! Harry cast a meaningful glance at Hermione and Ron. He didn't doubt Ben completely, not yet, because he _had _led that robot away, no matter what this woman said...But suddenly all his earlier suspicions came back to him. The brown-cloaked figure talking with Voldemort. Ben's uncanny ability to know more than he should and be too many places in too short a timespan. The centaurs getting sick after meeting with Ben. Part of him didn't want to believe it, but another part of him thought that maybe he was right all along...

"I do not believe Ben to be any kind of threat," Dumbledore responded firmly, drawing himself up tall and unyielding. The woman shook her head, voice serious and grave.

"What you believe is irrelevant; what matters is the truth. Obi-Wan Kenobi is Dark Side-touched, and until he returns to the Order to cleanse himself of it, he is very much a threat. I am sorry if this causes you dismay, but this is how it must be."

Dumbledore frowned thunderously. "Not only did he just destroy that machine nearly single-handedly, but Ben has been nothing but an asset to the centaurs of the Forest for weeks. I won't see him taken away in return without due cause or explanation and his own willing assent."

"You wish assent?" The woman gestured gracefully with her hand. "Look behind me. He gives it."

She alone stayed unmoving; all others turned, eyes immediately moving to the far-off figures at the lake's edge.

"Harry? What's going on?" Neville whispered beside him, voice barely audible; silently, Harry shook his head. He didn't know what to believe anymore. Because at the water's edge, looking just as compliant as the woman implied, was a folded-over figure, knees against the snow, back curved until his forehead and palms pressed against ground, one pale-clothed figure against a backdrop of whiteness. The brown-robed man stood, looking down upon the wizard – not just mere genuflection, Ben's pose spoke of complete obeisance. Set against the woman's words, such an action spoke volumes for the truth of her assertion.

But a part of Harry just felt sick, replacing Ben with a groveling Death Eater and the quiet, brown-robed man, who even now set a hand on Ben's shoulder to usher him up, with a black-robed Voldemort, slit-eyed with satisfaction, and raising his wand with cruel coldness to keep the groveler down.

"Observe," the woman stated, drawing attention away from where Ben and the other man, both standing again, were gradually moving in their direction. "His obedience is a good sign; Padawan Kenobi can yet turn back to the Light."

Harry looked once more at the figures approaching them – none of the superhuman speed in their movements now, just a solemn older man leading an acquiescent younger one, a few steps behind and to his right. Ben's gaze was directed at the ground; his movements, ungainly and stiff; and while one hand swung limply at his side, the other was tucked away, hidden from view in cream-colored tunics.

"He looks pretty guilty, doesn't he," Ron said quietly. Harry glanced his way, then looked at Hermione, whose expression was one of mixed denial, reluctance, sympathy, and uncertainty.

"I don't want to believe it, but," she shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what a Jedi is, or what being a Padawan means, but...He didn't seem like the type, did he?"

"No," Harry agreed, voice just as low. "He didn't."

"You guys know him?" Neville interjected in a whisper, looking at each of them in turn.

"He stayed at my house over winter hols," Ron replied distantly, watching the pair get ever closer.

"You think he's really a Dark wizard?"

"Dunno, mate," Ron answered grimly. "I think we're about to find out, though."

But Dumbledore, apparently, wasn't so content to wait, not even the few minutes it would have taken for the pair to come to the dome's edge. "If you are so intent on proving his guilt, then tell me: what he has done?" he stated, a hard edge to his voice.

"Let me answer your question with a question, Headmaster," the old woman returned, a curious tone entering her own rich voice. "Has he told you what the Jedi are? Or even that he is a Jedi? A Padawan, perhaps?" She shook her head and didn't wait for an answer. "He did not even tell you his true name. His duplicity alone damns him."

"And have you done any better?" Dumbledore parried just as smoothly. "You give as little explanation as he, but where he has only helped, you have left us trapped."

"I will say it again; you are not trapped, you are protected, and you _will _be set free." Her mouth turned downwards. "You question our intentions; this is understandable, but unnecessary. The Order will help him regain himself; as he is now, he falters. Already he has done you nearly irreparable damage."

"Oh?" Dumbledore questioned with raised brows.

"Yes. The centaurs of whom you speak – though it would appear as if he gives aid, the opposite is the case. He's been spreading the disease. Have you not wondered why he alone remains unaffected by the illness, nor why he has allowed none but himself to enter the Forest? This is why: Because he would have you believe his words, where his actions would have shown truth."

"And you have proof of this?" Dumbledore asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Of course. My partner is a true Jedi Healer; he has already seen to the centaurs. The signs of the Dark Side in their bodies are unmistakable."

"I find your explanation lacking," Dumbledore replied coolly, "But for now, I shall let it pass, because I am most interested to hear what your explanation is for the...I believe you called it a droideka."

"The droideka..." the woman shook her head regretfully, black braids brushing her lined face. "For this, I am deeply, truly sorry, and know that we will repair all the damages – and the offer of aid still stands, should any of you need it. But know that the droideka, too, was necessary to subdue Padawan Kenobi."

Harry could practically _feel _the power winding around Dumbledore.

"If I understand you correctly," and Harry couldn't understand why the woman wasn't shrinking back in fear at the disbelieving anger growing in the Headmaster, whose voice rose steadily in volume to where even those first years clustered farthest away from the dome's edge had to have heard clearly, "You are telling me that _you _two..._Jedi_ are responsible for its attack?"

The woman bowed deeply. "Yes."

Harry could only wonder what Dumbledore's kindly old face must look like as he replied, voice quiet once more but, if anything, only more powerful for it, "I _will_ hear why."

"You already saw why, Headmaster." The woman indicated the lake and the two approaching figures, nearly within earshot by this point. "Padawan Kenobi is formidable in battle. To subdue him on our own would have been beyond our means."

"So you let a machine loose upon a castle full of _students_, who had nothing whatsoever to do with any of this."

The woman didn't give an inch. "We are old, Headmaster," she explained, an almost gentle tone to her voice. "He is young, and the Dark Side gives him an edge not easily matched. In order to see reason, he had to be weakened first. Had he replied to our summons and met us outside to begin with, the droid would not have attacked the castle, and you would never have known we were here."

"Whether or not that is the case," Dumbledore replied without a hint of matching gentleness, "I cannot condone your actions, Jedi Master Kor Vollei, not in the least."

"And I cannot undo them, no matter how much I regret the harming of your students."

And with that, neither spoke again, having reached a verbal impasse. Snape and McGonagall approached the Headmaster, speaking in low murmurs unable to be heard by any beyond the three; meanwhile, Sprout and a few other teachers were busy shepherding back from the dome's edge anyone who would listen – which didn't, of course, include Hermione, Ron, Harry, or, somewhat surprisingly, Neville.

So it was that, into this hushed flurry of activity, Ben and the other Jedi arrived – and nearly immediately, everyone went still, and quiet, and silent, so that the hushed murmur of their voices carried off and on over the landscape to those nearest as they spoke in a language no one could understand.

* * *

Maybe he does deserve this.

Maybe they know all he's done, all he's felt since crashing here and they condemn him for it. Maybe the whole Order knows. Maybe what he feels is worse than a Padawan gone corrupted, desperate, and angry from the Dark Side – worse, because he chooses it? Because compassion _must _be bound before it turns into...this? Because what he feels for his Master has been morphing beyond his control for _years_ until here, shaken by the Call, exhausted, hungry, anxious, and cold, he can finally find the word that encompasses all that he feels for his Master, and yet doesn't even _begin _to dip into the thick, flowing, wonderful, strangling truth of it –

– _LOVE_ –

– he cringes away. How is he even supposed to...what should he...how...

How is he supposed to deal with this?

_Get rid of it_, but it won't be gotten rid of.

_Sublimate it_, but there's nothing to shift it to.

_Accept it_, but he _can't! Jedi do not love!_

The first touch of misery seeps into his mind, black as oil. If the Master had never Called him, he would never have looked inward with the desperation necessary to find what he was doing wrong – _feeling _wrong. If he hadn't been so shocked, he wouldn't have looked so hard, and he might have passed over it completely...

What will Qui-Gon think when he wakes up?

He closes his eyes, fingers curling like dying spiders. The sense of rightness he'd felt only – moments? minutes? – before, is gone, completely obliterated in the face of _this is not right_. He can barely touch the Force anymore, and he _needs _it. His _heart _wrist aches; he tries to reclaim at least a part of his connection, to still the dull throbbing, but the Force slips through his fingers like shadow. He can't touch it, not with a mind like his. The Force doesn't answer to turmoil...

...unless...

...unless accessed through the Dark Side.

* * *

Dumbledore tried talking to the Jedi – each of them, both of them, twice, but they only said, "We need a moment to discuss the transportation of Padawan Kenobi, please, and then we assure you, your questions will be addressed."

And Ben – well, Ben didn't answer at all.

So Harry was surprised when Dumbledore abandoned his place by the Jedi and leaned down towards him, Ron, and Hermione, expression determined but without that thrumming sense of contained power from before.

Harry was glad. He didn't think he ever wanted that unleashed in his direction.

"Harry, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger." Dumbledore spoke quietly, peering over his spectacles at each of them in turn. Behind him some distance away, McGonagall watched with a speculative frown; Snape's eyes, however, stayed narrowed at the Jedi. "Could you please try calling Ben for me?"

Harry traded a quick glance with Ron and Hermione, while Neville glanced back and forth between them and Dumbledore with the air of someone paying very close attention while trying not to be noticed.

"We're not all that close to him, sir," Harry admitted. "I don't think we'll be able to do much good – but we can try," he added, hating to disappoint Dumbledore but truthfully not putting much stock in the idea.

Dumbledore's smile, then, was as kind as if they weren't standing out in the cold trapped inside a magical dome after an attack on the castle. As if he'd just gotten a pair of particularly gaudy socks, or was handing out lemon drops to people who actually liked them as much as he did.

"That's all I ever ask for, Harry."

Harry nodded. "All right, sir, we'll give it a go, then-"

However, standing at the edge of the dome, peering through the wavy red haze and with Ron and Hermione waiting expectantly beside him, he nonetheless felt decidedly stupid as he tried to think of what to say. Ben stood with eyes downcast, looking thin and pale without the bulk of his brown robe, his clothes and boots soaked through and his braid frozen stiff over his shoulder. He looked like he needed consoling, not badgering.

So: how to approach this. Like coaxing a stray? Not that he was ever any good with Crookshanks, but...

"Er, hi, Ben. It's, um, Harry. You remember, from Ron's house, right? The Weasleys? Um..." he trailed off awkwardly when Ben didn't move. Harry reached out to touch the dome; a cleared throat stopped him.

"I would suggest not touching it, Harry," Dumbledore offered delicately.

"Er. Right." He stepped back and tried again. "Well, listen, Ben. If you can hear me, we need to talk to you. Me, Hermione, Ron, and Professor Dumbledore. Ben? Hey, come on – can you just wave your hand or something if you can hear me-"

"Hold on a minute, Harry." Hermione placed a hand on his arm briefly to stop him. "Let me try something."

Stepping up to the dome's edge (but not within touching distance), she called out clearly, "Obi-Wan?"

Slowly, Ben's eyes closed. His fingers curved into a knucklebone-white grip. But his facial expression remained blank and closed; his posture, tense; and his voice, silent.

The other two Jedi continued talking, voices low and speech exotic.

"Well, not exactly what I was going for, but it's a sign," Hermione said hopefully. Then, louder to Ben again, "Obi-Wan Kenobi? Padawan Kenobi? Can you hear me? We'd like to hear from you what's going on, if you could tell us. Obi-Wan?"

Ben didn't reply, and this time, he didn't move, either. Hermione's brows came together. Dumbledore, Harry noticed, kept his eyes on Ben, speculatively.

While Hermione attempted to catch his attention again, Harry heard Neville clear his throat a little nervously. "Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes, Mr. Longbottom?"

"Er, I probably shouldn't say this too loud, just in case," he whispered, to which Dumbledore nodded encouragingly. "But can't we just tunnel out, under the dome?"

"Ah." With approval, Dumbledore responded just as quietly, "we certainly could, if the dome didn't in fact extend beneath our feet."

"Oh." Momentarily crestfallen, Neville came back with, "Then couldn't someone out there-" he pointed to the far side of the dome, on the other side of which the several professor stood, attempting in various ways to get in, "-just broom over the top of the dome to get to the Jedi?"

"You are quite right, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore murmured back, the commendation clearer now, to which Neville ducked his head a bit, "However, at this point we're waiting on a few arrivals before we proceed further."

"Oh. Okay, sir." Neville waited expectantly, but Dumbledore merely peered through the dome at Ben, seemingly oblivious. Neville soon gave up, retuning to stand next to Harry.

"Want me to try?" Ron was asking Hermione doubtfully, scratching the back of his head when, as one, the two Jedi turned towards Ben.

"Padawan Kenobi."

...Gradually, Ben shifted their direction; first the eyes, then the head as if pulled by the eyes; then the body, but only slightly, so that he faced them twisted and sidelong.

"Steshe?"

For a moment, Harry thought Ben had just mangled the pronunciation of "yes" – until he heard more of that same rapid, consonant-heavy language coming from the male Jedi's mouth, clearly addressing Ben.

"A morien vaïchdi skrivitzki udna..." The man strung together a few sentences worth of words, tone authoritative, but otherwise inflection-less. Ben gave no indication that he was comprehending any of it; his gaze remained strange and unfocused.

It was a familiar facial expression. Ben had that same haunted, fey look he'd worn after seeing Quinn's funeral pyre through the boggart...which didn't bode well for whatever he was being told.

When the man finished, Ben blinked slowly, then, like a man half-asleep, and turned all the way to face the Jedi, giving those in the dome a profile-view of his slightly crooked nose and naturally arched brow.

"Ehtudri Master Kor Vollei stino na kudna seiki Master vasten?"

His voice had a bit of a rasp to it, like the crackle of dried leaves, and he spoke so softly as to be nearly inaudible. For a second, it wasn't the discrepancy between this quietly downtrodden young man and the serenely unruffled wizard he'd been all that time at the Weasleys' that was the hardest to reconcile about Ben; it was that, for the first time, Harry heard him speak a sentence, not in simple diction and uncomplicated phrasing, but with each of the words in the quick piano-scale succession that comes from speaking one's native tongue. And for that second, Harry was struck anew with the fact that he really didn't know anything about Ben; not what kind of wizard he was, not where he was from, not what language that was he spoke with ease, and whether or not he was more intelligent than his lack of English had made him seem.

What if Ben had known all along that not knowing English made him appear stupider – and had used it to his advantage?

The two Jedi traded glances; the man sighed faintly in what could have been disappointment.

"Padawan, seisaïskra da straso li dohpa."

"There's that word again," Hermione said in an undertone, alert and sharply trained on the conversation.

"Which word?" he whispered back.

"Padawan," she murmured. "It's a title of his, obviously, and somewhat diminutive, and I'm quite certain he used the word Master..."

Something curled unpleasantly through Harry's stomach. "Master?"

Hermione glanced at him. "Yes. It makes sense – the woman introduced herself as a 'Jedi Master,' remember?"

"Sometimes Voldemort has his followers call him Master, Hermione."

"...Yes," she repeated carefully, and looked about to say more, but Harry's expression must have changed her mind; she didn't offer anything else, and returned her attention to the conversation, just in time to see the woman take a sudden step closer to Ben, looking very intent and leaning forward.

"...slaku na nepet'ohda diverni ri vo?"

Whatever it was, Ben didn't seem to want to answer.

"Navaga, Padawan," the man snapped. "Diverni vo giseiki Master?"

Shade-like, Ben recoiled.

"Viku dzei vodi," he murmured, voice barely audible and eyes downcast. The man nodded; the woman stepped back, said a few more words to Ben, to which he merely dipped his chin in silent acquiescence; then, turning to the man, she placed in the male Jedi's extended palm a red, oval object, about half the size of his palm.

"This device controls the force field," he explained in English, surprising many of the wizards, Harry included, by addressing them directly once more. He held it up between forefinger and thumb so they could see it more clearly. "Padawan Kenobi has agreed to leave with Master Kor Vollei; I'll remain to disable the shield, and you'll be free to return to your castle."

"Might we speak to Ben directly on this matter?" Dumbledore asked smoothly.

"Certainly. Padawan?"

Ben and the woman had already begun walking away; at being addressed, Ben paused and faced them once more from his position on the woman's right. His eyes seemed distant, and he shifted his focus from the man to Dumbledore with lethargic slowness.

"Headmaster Dumbledore?"

"Ben," Dumbledore began, tone completely changed – kind, coaxing, inviting Ben to help him understand. "We'd like to hear from you what's happened this afternoon. Could you tell us?"

Arms tucked his sleeves, Ben closed his eyes once, slowly, then opened them, looking vaguely at a point somewhat above Dumbledore. It would have been insulting, Harry thought, if something wasn't so clearly wrong.

Dumbledore tried again. "Are you leaving of your own free will, Ben?"

As if hearing something no one else could, Ben cocked his head to the side, doing another of those eerily slow blinks. Neville shifted uncomfortably beside him; Harry was reminded of where Neville's parents were, and how they'd got there, and the kinds of behavior that he must see at that place...

Gradually, Ben folded over at the waist in a bow, eyes closed.

"I am called Obi-Wan Kenobi, Headmaster."

And with those last words, Ben turned around, docilely following in the female Jedi's wake, not responding to Dumbledore's attempts to call him back.

The Headmaster rounded on the other Jedi. "What have you done to him?"

The man responded calmly, "Padawan Kenobi is fine. His English is, as you know, limited; he hasn't the vocabulary to describe the events of this afternoon. We're going to help him, Headmaster," he added, the first hint of earnestness creeping into his voice. "You've only seen him as he is, now; when he returns to what he once was, he will be a credit to the Order once more."

Dumbledore shook his head firmly. "There is something wrong with that young man," he said softly, "and you are fools if you cannot see it."

The man copied Dumbledore's motions. "Headmaster, believe me in this: we do see it, more clearly than you know. Now; I'm going to let you out. You must give me your word you won't go after them."

Dumbledore drew himself up, meeting the Jedi's eyes resolutely and not speaking.

"I must have your word, Headmaster, or I cannot let your students free," the male Jedi said pointedly.

Dumbledore held out a few moments longer; then, still tall and firm, he nodded.

"Thank you." The Jedi bowed. Rising, he withdrew the small red device –

– a blue eye slid sleekly to the side as Ben looked over his shoulder, a sudden flash of teeth gleaming white in a washed-out landscape –

* * *

He's going to do it. He's going to do it and Obi-Wan _won't let him-_

_

* * *

_  
– the man jerked backwards unnaturally, yanked like a puppet, eyes wide and white and empty; the green light shone with a beautiful glow, hummed softly and _stuck out from the man's chest_.

Unmistakably dead, the man's body draped limply off the object on which he was skewered, pig-like, mouth slack and lolling. Then, with another jerking, unnatural _yank_, the sword slid out of his chest, leaving a gaping, even, cauterized hole where it'd been, as if a giant earthworm had tunneled through the man rather than a sword made of light.

The sword flew back through the air, a hawk to the waiting hand of its master, whose other hand was tensed in a claw-like rictus over a blackened wrist. The hand unclenched abruptly; without any support, the man's body slumped to the ground. Dead.

Harry saw the red device trail limply from the dead man's fingers, resting on its side in the snow.

Lip curled, movements whiplike fierce, Ben –

No.

Obi-Wan attacked the remaining Jedi.


	7. regret

–seven–  
_-regret-_

Obi-Wan didn't hesitate when he threw himself upon the woman, swift angles and sharpness in his movements, precision and calculation upon his face. His first few attacks came from the air, rapid downward strikes enough to push the woman several meters towards the lake, farther from both the forest and the red dome, which, due to Obi-Wan's intervention, still hummed and snapped above them.

"Oh my _god_," Hermione whispered faintly, eyes very round and fingers coming up to flutter over her mouth. "He killed him. He _killed_ him."

She stared at the dead body. Harry, too, stared at it, shocked at Obi-Wan's betrayal. Behind him people screamed, a vast echoing screech like shrieking violins. He turned, looking for Dumbledore and finding him in intense conference with Snape; McGonagall and the other teachers went about calming the students as best they could. Dumbledore's back was to Harry and he couldn't make out what Snape said so rapidly, but the git's face was dark, narrowed eyes glittering like faceted onyx. Harry looked away.

"I suppose that answers whether or not he's a Dark wizard," Ron said grimly, face was pale and voice with a shaky undertone. Beside him, Neville nodded, silent, eyes wide, yet strangely more in control of himself than most.

"Murderer," Harry whispered with rising fury. The Jedi were right; Obi-Wan was a killer, one who wouldn't hesitate to cut down innocents like Master Pavrell. Now Harry wouldn't be the only one who could see thestrals. Nobody deserved that.

Obi-Wan was a dervish. Human-height above the ground, he whirled, airborne, snapping out legs and arms and that deadly glowing sword of his, bearing down upon the Jedi without hesitation, forcing her inexorably back and on the defensive. He was shouting at the Jedi – it might have been questions, it might not, but with the growing distance it was hard to hear, and in any case, it wasn't in English. For her part, the Jedi only responded sparingly, both verbally and physically; her movements were as stiff and ungainly as Obi-Wan himself had seemed, only moments ago. When she raised her sword with mechanical straightness, Obi-Wan was already canting to the side; when she pivoted to meet his thrust, Obi-Wan was long since in the air, above her reach, twisting lithely and landing on her unprotected side, sword bared.

It was clear she was going to lose.

"What she said before was really true." Harry murmured aloud distractedly as he watched the impending slaughter play out before him, still feeling anger simmering just under his skin. "They weren't lying about Be- Obi-Wan being the dangerous one. He's done just what they said he would do..."

But then why would he have saved him, Ron, and Hermione, and right after they attacked him? Surely that would have been a prime opportunity-

The woman gasped and sank to one knee, winded, but she was given no rest; Obi-Wan was upon her, sweeping his sword downwards towards her shoulder and forcing her to block, then rise again, though it clearly took a toll.

If only he could get out there somehow...!

"Dobby!"

"Harry?"

"Ron, where's Dobby?" Harry asked, breathless with his sudden idea, already turning to scan the Hogwarts-side perimeter beyond the dome.

"Dunno-"

"There! Dobby!" Harry pointed and waved frantically, half-walking, half-running towards the elf, trying to catch his attention. He heard Ron calling to Hermione, and the two of them catching up to him.

"Harry, what are you thinking? How can Dobby help us?" Hermione nonetheless waved and gestured as frantically as Harry towards the elf.

"He's outside – he can get that thing and let us out – he sees us! Dobby!"

They were still far from that side of the dome, but they'd moved far enough away from the other cluster of hidden wizards that they stood out; it wasn't long before Dobby saw them. Harry began gesturing and shouting at once, hoping a house-elf's hearing was better than a human's.

Round eyes wide in his puckered face, Dobby nodded hastily, ears flopping back and forth before he raised his fingers in a snap; Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned in time to see Dobby pop back into sight on the other side of the dome in a nervous crouch, glancing skittishly at the body beside him while he rose with the small red object in hand.

Hands cupped around his mouth, Harry shouted, "Press it, Dobby!" Swallowing heavily with another skittish glance at the dead Jedi, the elf nodded-

-a flash of green and an outstretched hand and suddenly Obi-Wan was _there_, yanking the elf towards him with a hand on his shoulder, holding that sword so dangerously close the green reflected off Dobby's frightened eyes, grabbing the device from the elf's hand, pushing Dobby away with a touch to his forehead and something muttered – then Dobby fell to the ground, unmoving, and in his fist, Obi-Wan held the red oval.

Harry was livid; running back to the dome's edge, he screamed, "What have you done to Dobby, you-"

Obi-Wan's face was a mask of concentration; a blue crackle fizzed in his palm and ran over the object like miniature lightning, eliciting a _snap _and a faint smoke-stream.

Before the steam cleared from the device, Obi-Wan crushed it with his bare hand.

"What the hell are you trying to pull!" Harry hollered in anger, hand on his wand and ready to do _something _but forced into inactivity by the dome's continued presence, the dome that they'd be trapped in now for who knows how long thanks to _Obi-Wan _and who knew who else he'd kill while they were stuck with their hands tied-

"Easy, Harry," Dumbledore murmured, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder; he twitched, startled, and twisted to face his mentor.

"But Professor, he's going to-"

"I know," Dumbledore responded, voice tight with restrained – what, censure? Fear? Anger? Did Dumbledore even get angry like normal people? "But help is on the way, Harry."

But what about all those other professors on the other side of the dome? They weren't trapped. Gesturing towards the teachers by the school, Harry began, "There's professors over there who could help-"

"I won't send them to fight a fight they cannot hope to win," Dumbledore responded firmly, softly, making Harry immediately ashamed – hadn't he just thought himself, a second ago, that Obi-Wan was perfectly capable of killing more people?

Still, it didn't make him any less angry at the foreign wizard, so that when the woman Jedi, taking advantage of Obi-Wan's momentary distraction, caught up to him and started hacking away – _finally _on the offensive – Harry was all for her as she pressed Obi-Wan back to the wall of the very dome itself, which he wavered ever so _close _to, not touching but _almost_ –

"Ha!" Harry hissed under his breath – the back of Obi-Wan's left arm touched from elbow to shoulder against the dome with a misleadingly soft _skshh _and crackle. Obi-Wan let out a short, pained gasp; and when he pulled away, the fabric of his shirt was burnt clean through, exposing partially blackened flesh beneath that broke off at his movements and fell in dry little flakes, like ash.

It was gross and looked really painful. Harry hoped it hurt, because Obi-Wan deserved it.

He watched the fight continue; a moment later, Dumbledore moved away, talking in quiet undertones with Snape, and Hermione and Ron came closer to take his place.

Ron looked a little less white but was pointedly not looking at the body only feet in front of them. "You think he's got," Ron jerked his head meaningfully at Dumbledore and Snape, "_those _people coming to help?"

The Order? "I hope so," Harry replied distantly, watching with a sinking heart as Obi-Wan once again regained the offensive, despite his injuries. In fact, it looked maddeningly like he didn't even feel them, if the speed with which he carried out attack after attack was any indication.

"She's going to lose soon, isn't she?" Hermione burst out helplessly, wringing her hands. "He's going to kill her, too. He's going to kill her."

No one answered.

* * *

The Force feels wrong, Dark Side-touched.

Pain flows continuously through his mind, shunted off in the slipstream of his actions to a place where he can't feel it. The Force is wild around him, twining, surrounding, meshing, snarling until it isn't a matter of _how_ to reach it, but _how much_ of it he can harness to his use. With each twist of his muscles, he feels a matching shift in the Force, a sense of such acute awareness that it's maddening.

But it's not altogether unfamiliar, this keenness of perception. As if the world is segmented and fragmented and he's an insect to see all possibilities in facets, all at once –

- it was with him many months before, in a small dark space without light or gravity, where only he could provide touch and taste and smell and sound – only he, and a small, continuous trickle of life-sustaining liquid. After a while, everything just seemed like this – _big. _Too much reality for him to handle. He was held captive, then, like his Master, and close to madness. But now –

Now, he presses forward. She has since stopped answering his shouts, and so he's stopped yelling them. He knows they're moving faster than it seems they are, but each movement comes to him with dream-like slowness and blurriness, like all the clarity has been taken from him and only this haze of Force and necessity remains. And it _is _necessary. He'll _stop her –_

He sends a pulse of the Force with his outstretched sabre arm, pushing her back; then, with his other arm, pulls her feet forward. She, like the man, has proven herself very susceptible to most kinds of Force attacks, attacks against which even Padawans can defend themselves with some success. While she stumbles, he lunges, slicing upward through one of her arms and a section of her braids.

"Will you surrender?"

Seamlessly, she adjusts her stance to account for her missing limb. Obi-Wan's too busy releasing the torrents of pain the attack caused in his left arm, now burnt at the back as well as at the wrist, to notice whether or not she's doing the same as a result of her dismemberment.

But he has a definite advantage now. She can't use nearly as much strength in her one-handed parries, and her attacks, fewer than his to begin with, are now virtually non-existent. Their feet crackle atop the crusted snow – he doesn't sink. She does.

A tingle at the edge of his senses – a group of people approaching. He has to finish this soon, before they arrive...

She slices downward; he blocks it with an upward cut and a shove of the Force, following through with a downward stroke that she blocks, barely; then he's crouching and drawing his arm back and cutting downward again, and this time after she blocks he pulls on the Force to speed his upward cut, attacking while her arm's still raised in its previous upward position – and his sabre cuts into her thigh, and he's gritting his teeth against the pull on his wrist that the extra effort it takes to cut through flesh exerts on the damaged joint. Then, continue the stroke upward and through her wrist –

– _if he keeps going, he can slice off her head –_

– _he could –_

He doesn't.

Her sabre flashes mutedly out of existence; her wrist falls to the ground. Her face contorts into a horrible expression of utmost rage. She wobbles, once, on her single leg, before dropping like a felled log, joining her appendages in the snow.

Obi-Wan drops to one knee beside her, shunting off waves and waves of pain and fatigue, breath labored and cloudy in the chill air. His Master's sabre remains lit, cutting a gentle swathe into the snow. His eyes focus on the woman with an effort.

"You'll answer me now," he commands, fingers crossing his torso, words thick with the Force.

She doesn't respond. He presses harder.

"You'll answer me now."

She doesn't respond. Her face is slack and expressionless and her Force-signature as dead as if he'd killed her like the other.

"You'll answer me..." but he trails off, frowning, and the only sound comes from his harshly panted breaths. Something isn't right...

He stands. Slowly, he pivots, first his eyes, then his head, then his body. Ever-closer, the patch of incoming wizards approach, a bright spot against his senses. They'll be here within the minute. But they're not what makes the tight lurch of tension knot up his shoulders and curdle in his stomach. They're not what looms like a storm on the horizon of the Unifying Force, screaming at him that something stifling and dark is hurtling at him, something that has the potential to kill him more than a lightsabre ever could, and it's inexorably, suffocatingly close _–_

"You can't –"

Whirling, Obi-Wan brandishes his sabre –

"– even feel me, can you."

– and stops cold.

"Drop the sabre."

It falls from his fingers.

"Send it here."

A flick of his fingertips, and it's gone. A taloned hand picks it up and crushes it – Obi-Wan watches the pieces fall, and a part of his mind is screamingpast images of flames and pyres that that's his Master's _body _lightsabre in pieces in the snow – and his thoughts grasp in tangled directions for a way to save the man lying still and horribly exposed, neck cradled in another clawed hand, thumb-talon sawing little blood-streaks up and down, up and down –

_Get off him!_

The Force writhes with him – pulsing, ominous...Dark...

"You know, Padawan, if it weren't for your horse friends, I never would have found him." Obi-Wan watches, transfixed and terrified, as the blood wells from the neck scratches and drips to the snow, sluggishly. "Stay still, and I promise I'll kill you quick, and your _Master-" _

– prescience strikes swiftly – Obi-wan leaps, letting out an incoherent, strangled sound of desperate fury –

"-never has to know."

The claws encircling his Master's neck _slash - _

-_ Master Qui-Gon MASTER –_

_- NO!_

_

* * *

_Contrary to common myth, few Force-touched newborns are chosen by the Jedi.

The Master who finds Obi-Wan is about to leave the dry, hot planet – too hot, and its people, too hopeless – when she feels the touch of water in her mind - a chime, bell-like and blue. Her path diverts. She follows the infant's mind – delicately, it's such a new and fragile mind – to the underground dwellingscrammed together like abscesses and dusted with sand. The people here don't know Jedi, but they know _her_, and those around watch her steps with a tired hero-worship. They don't know what she's looking for, but they all hope it's they that have it.

At one dwelling, she stops. Heatwaves curl upward from the sand, but inside...The ladder leads her down to a cool, dark, moist place, smelling of childbirth and blood. Shining things glint on the walls.

The midwife is the first and only of this planet to whom the Master identifies herself. In a simple, folklorish way, she's heard of Jedi and their habits; and perhaps it's this that makes her whisper, "If you want the babe, take him now, while the mother sleeps."

While the mother sleeps...It sits poorly with her, but the Master nods and is led to the bedroom. The mother lies in a pile of purple and red blankets, bunched warm and tight on the ground like an animal's den. The babe is held loosely in her arms; strands of her pale blonde hair trail over his face. In the corner, a pile of soiled linens. There is no father in sight.

"Little Bilal..." The midwife sighs and brushes fingertips over the newborn's scrunched, wrinkly face.

Bilal...moisture. On a desert planet, the child is named moisture.

"He'll lose his name, should he come with me," the Master says quietly, palming the infant's soft, smooth head. "He'll lose everything."

"Yes, but," the midwife watches her with furrowed brows, "What does he have now that's worth so much? His mother might love him as he grows up, or she might not, but I'd imagine your Jedi love is better."

"I wouldn't-" be raising the child myself, she almost says, and love isn't rated by the profession of its possessor, but in the end, just shakes her head. "Jedi do not love."

The midwife draws back. "You...of course you do. Look at what you did here, when no one knew what you are. You did good. You did love."

The Master is, for a moment, wordless. Her palm rests on the warm baby's skin but her attention is, for that one pause, fully on the midwife. She did love? The midwife saw her work on this forsaken furnace of a planet as...love?

Her eyes return to the infant. "I need to check him. Please, let me hold him in peace for a moment. Do not let anyone enter."

The midwife trusted her as a foreigner; her trust is exponentially greater now that the foreigner is known as Jedi. She leaves without question.

Carefully, the Master extricates the infant from the mother's arms. The woman, exhausted from childbirth, doesn't stir; but the child wakes, eyelids cracking open the smallest amount, body squirming weakly, Force squirming weakly. Already the infant tries to touch his mother's mind, instinctively seeking the protection his body no longer has.

"If you come with me," the Master says gravely, "I'll take that from you." And so saying, she begins to dampen down the connection between mother and child – and, a much paler connection, between father and child. The infant's eyes open wider. He tries to fight her hold on the Force, but she is monumentally stronger.

"If you come with me," she continues, "I'll take your name." His eyes are blue and solemn, an odd sight in a child so young. He has yet to make a sound. Most infants have cried long before this – been returned to their mothers, long before this.

"If you come with me, you'll be a Jedi. And a Jedi accepts that he has nothing. A Jedi accepts that he may lose everything." Her mind touches his, imparting the words with primal guidance, translating words to a language older than she can understand. A language with no barriers; a language of the Force, made of images, sounds, smells, sensations. Memories.

"A Jedi does much good throughout his life. A Jedi knows peace, knowledge, serenity, harmony, and the Force. But in the end, a Jedi accepts."

She sets the child down on the ground, unwrapping the bundle of rags from his tiny body until he lies naked upon the sand. He shifts, jerkily and uncoordinated, but does not shiver. She stands back and faces the infant.

"Do you accept?"

The infant watches her with wide, old eyes. Then, very slowly, his pudgy, baby limbs settle. He doesn't fight to touch his mother's mind anymore. The Master nods, only now crouching down beside him, cupping his face gently in her hands.

Then she severs the last of his connection.

The infant whimpers faintly; she watches him intently. It's a huge shock for an Force-touched newborn to be cut off from his parents – some of them begin dying. Those infants, she swiftly, neatly reconnects and leaves, never to become Jedi. Some cry out, too, or thrash and wail. Those children are also reconnected and left with their mothers – _those, _if taken, most often grow into the Dark Side. Their need for their mother is too great.

But the Master is entirely unprepared for what happens.

The infant reaches out for her own mind.

The Master stares. She has never had a newborn, upon losing the connection to his mother, seek out _her_, the severer, as a replacement. He doesn't even want her as a mother – just as a connection...She pushes the infant's attempts away, gently. It's a task that only takes a fraction of her concentration, despite it being surprisingly more difficult than it should be...

"So you seek a substitute?" the Master murmurs, looking down at the infant, starting to wrap the cloth back around his tiny body. "If I take you, will you continually seek substitutes?" Should she end up taking him, one of the crèche-mothers will, in fact, form a connection with the infant, though it's important the child not know that yet. He _has_ to accept this initial nothingness before he can be granted more.

"Is such a strong connection necessary for you? Will your life as a Jedi be weighed down by attachment until you die? Until you become Dark? Until it kills you?"

She picks the child up, holding him to her body. He has stopped all but the most careful of mind-touches, tiny like the breath of a butterfly. "Or is it that your mind is strong enough that you hold equal and blameless the one who has hurt you?" she asks him quietly. "That you see no reason not to seek a connection with even I, who has taken all connection?"

She looks down into eyes blue like water. It's strange for this planet, for these people – most of them have yellow irises...

"Is this compassion? Or is this desperation?"

Neither infant nor Force has an answer.

* * *

Many years earlier, another Jedi Master held a tiny humanoid infant – asleep, and no longer grasping plaintively at his mind – and made the same decision.

"Qui-Gon Jinn," the Master said solemnly, "your new name is. Jedi, you will be."

* * *

"What the bloody hell is that-"

"That's Mr. Quinn!" Hermione pointed excitedly at the prone figure lying on his back in the snow.

"No, I meant the other thing," Ron retorted, managing to sound dry despite having most of his attention fixed on the scenes playing out beyond the dome. "That big, blue thing with the buggy red eyes and the teeth. That thing, Hermione?"

"I see it, no need to be a prat," Hermione snapped.

"Is he dead?" Harry asked heatedly. "Did Obi-Wan's father die, too?"

"Isn't _anybody_ a teensy bit more concerned about the talking blue monster?" Ron wailed.

"It got Obi-Wan to stop, that's all I care about," Harry responded darkly. It was true – Obi-Wan stood very, very still, looking thin and fragile as paper in the wind. He'd dropped his sword; his hands were slack and empty at his sides. His eyes didn't move from the blue thing – not as it kept touching Quinn's neck, not as it picked up the gray sword tube Obi-Wan threw its way, not as it crushed the tube in a single hand with a blinding flare of green...

"What _is_ it?" Neville asked beside him, voice tinged with parts wonder and apprehension. Its appearance was utterly alien – two arms and two legs, yes, but its head was bulbous and bony, its red eyes set low and forward, and its teeth a vicious row protruding lip-less over its bottom jaw. Its skin was a slate-like dark blue, and as it gestured Harry caught sight of bone spikes protruding from its elbows – and the talons it had in place of fingers were hard to miss as well. Gender was impossible to tell – it wore a large gold band, inset with a red jewel, across its midsection, from which rectangles of white cloth draped over a pale pink skirt – but what might seem like female traits were offset by a muscled, bare chest. A similarly colored cloak wrapped around its neck in a thick scarf-like clasp, and around the back of its head, another gold metal plate attached and spread like a fan.

"Is it a – a male hag?" Neville continued, sounding skeptical of his own idea. Ron snorted distractedly.

"A man-hag? I don't think they exist..."

"No, they don't," Hermione concurred, but she added, "though it's a better guess than anything else I've –" The rest of Hermione's sentence was swallowed up by a horrified gasp.

The blue creature raked its claws across Quinn's throat, opening up a gaping, lurid patch of red.

A sound like the world ending; Obi-Wan screamed.

* * *

_- NO!_

He falls upon the Draethos with mindless ferocity, a blinding, incandescent rage churning through each twist of limb. He'll kill him. The Force knows he'll kill him. It's only a matter of when, and how.

But his _Master!_

Desperately, Obi-Wan reaches for Qui-Gon's mind – _but not with the Dark, never with the Dark, don't let it touch him just because it's in you..._. He gets no answering touch, no recognition – stasis prevents it – but he clings with terrible fear nonetheless. He pours himself into his Master – insinuates himself into the nooks and crannies and _won't let go_.

Something here...if he can't keep his Master alive, something here has the power to break him, and it's not the Draethos.

He thinks of a desert and hot sand beneath his back.

* * *

A few agonizingly long moments of Obi-Wan's fury, and the Aurors arrived. They swooped out of the air in neck-breaking dives that would have done any Quidditch team proud, converging in on the two fighters with spells darting.

But they drew up short, as both Obi-Wan and the blue creature deflected or dodged the spells flung at them; and as none of the Aurors were dumb enough to dive between two locked combatants, they were forced to hover, a half-dozen or so figures dark against the snowy sky, and take their shots when they could. As Harry watched, Obi-Wan lunged forward to evade a stunning spell, hastily converting the motion into a stilted attack. The blue creature took instant advantage, slamming a brutal uppercut to Obi-Wan's jaw, snapping the young man's head up and sending him reeling backwards in a spray of blood. He staggered into an unsteady parry just in time to prevent a hole in his chest from the creature's grasping talons. Blood trailed out the corner of his mouth.

Another hit and Obi-Wan flew several feet, spinning mid-air before landing with a heavy _thump _in the snow, face-down and twitching faintly.

Before the blue creature could move in, the Aurors as one launched stunning spells at the creature in a great flash of light. Surrounded by the barrage, there was nowhere for it to go. Enough spells hit it to slow it down; more, and it stilled, wobbled, and dropped, immobile, to the snow.

To the side, Obi-Wan pushed himself shakily to his feet, only to be caught under several stunning spells as well. Like the blue creature, he seemed resistant to being stunned, but numbers won out and he dropped his sword, the light flicking out of existence, and fell. He gave an agonized scream before he hit the ground, dreadful as someone having his heart torn from his chest, and still living.

One Auror jumped off her broom and knelt beside Obi-Wan's father. Two more followed suit, one sporting a familiar crop of bubble-gum bright pink hair, while two others took up places beside Obi-Wan and the blue creature. The remaining three Aurors sped quickly towards the corners of the red dome, though one broke apart from the rest.

Kingsley. He approached Dumbledore from the other side of the red barrier even as, with the coming of the Aurors, several Hogwarts teachers broomed over the dome to give aid. Harry surreptitiously edged closer to eavesdrop.

McGonagall, lips thinned and arms crossed, stepped in his path, effectively blocking him. He scowled and opened his mouth to protest but she raised her chin with an especially steely glint to her eye, and he thought better of it.

Instead, he returned to Hermione and Ron, and the three of them did their best to listen from a distance.

"...assisted in destroying the machine...appearance of two...Jedi? Moody, have you heard of – no...claimed he was a rogue...point at which...killed the male victim."

"...second victim, female, appears catatonic...breathing, but..."

"...third victim, male, status unknown..."

A sudden exclamation from afar, and all eyes turned to watch a flurry of motion erupt around the fallen Mr. Quinn.

"There's too many people in the way," Hermione complained in frustration, trying in vain to maneuver the magnifying spell around the far-off Aurors to catch a glimpse of what caught their attention, but the witches and wizards formed a virtual wall. Harry instead glanced at Dumbledore and Kingsley. The Auror was speaking into some kind of handheld device that looked suspiciously like a walkie-talkie, though Harry knew it had to be modified in order to work around Hogwarts. Certainly copied the Muggle design, though...

In the distance, the Hogwarts professors landed by the Aurors. Poppy Pomfrey was one of them.

* * *

"This man should be dead. If not from the neck wound, then from the complete stoppage of his bodily organs. I've never seen...How are you keeping him alive?"

The Auror Mediwitch only shook her head tightly. "I'm not."

"Then what is?"

The Mediwitch didn't look up. Eventually she murmured, "I don't know."

* * *

Professor Flitwick knew a great deal about charms. A _great _deal. More than he'd ever taught to any single Hogwarts pupil, more than most Aurors ever bothered to learn unless they were specialists. And if they were specialists – well, who was called in to teach them but himself?

Not that he liked it very much. Hogwarts students were just at the right ages for learning – malleable minds, they had, just on the cusp of maturity. A bit cruel, sometimes, yes, in the way that children are, and often distracted by brighter, flashier things. But still. Despite themselves, they learned. They were _ripe _for what he had to give them. Aurors...well, the recruits were the closest to Hogwarts students, he supposed, but even they'd look down upon charms if he didn't dazzle their socks off during his introduction. And they all seemed so very mean and jaded when they got older. Show him a happy Auror, and he'd show that Auror a thousand happier charms users.

So it was with the particular grimace he reserved for Auror-related business that Flitwick trundled over to the fallen blue creature, feeling like nothing so much as a big, ungainly penguin waddling about in the snow. They wanted him to check the...the...what was he supposed to call it – him? He was a sentient being, no doubt about that, so _creature _didn't fit despite that garish appearance, but neither did _man_. Flitwick had always been more sensitive than most about the proper naming of half-breeds, which this being no doubt was –

"Quite a snarl on this fucker, ain't it?"

Flitwick's expression soured further. "Your vulgarity is rather off-putting."

The Auror grinned toothily and gave the stunned being a kick. "S'true, though, innit? Eh, teach?"

Flitwick pursed his lips and began searching, starting at the top of the being's gold headpiece, for hidden charms – concealment, disguise, purposeful disfigurement, befuddling, aggression enhancers, strengthening...the list was extensive, but he could sort through them like they were boxed candy and only he had the labeled sheet –

"Ooh..." He suddenly felt a bit woozy. His wand wavered over the blue man's head, right at temple range.

"Teach?"

"It's-" he shook himself, frowning faintly. Red eyes stared at him glassily, unmoving. "Nothing."

"F'you say so, teach, but one more sound like that, and I'm gonna whip Kingsley over here so fast those fuckin' huge earrrings of his'll be left spinnin' where they fly."

"Certainly." It was just important that he make no more sound, then. He almost shook his head again, feeling sort of _itchy _in there, but if he scratched it that'd only make it worse...

He drew his wand down further, past the being's temple. He _could _keep scanning for more charms, especially in the torso region, the...torso was where...with the heat, and the heart, charms settled...more easily...

Or, he could remove the stunning spells.

He _did _try to shake his head then, but it only came out as a faint twitch in his nose, like a sniffle. The Auror didn't even turn. Of course she wouldn't, she was an Auror, crude, lacking in finesse and unable to use the skill that he, a Master of charms, could use, to undo these stunning spells. It would just take him a moment, really.

He shouldn't, though. This being was dangerous. This being had tried to kill another. This being –

Was a half-breed, like himself, being unjustly held down, in a shameful manner, like some common criminal. Surely he could help a fellow half-breed?

Yes.

Yes, he could.

Because Professor Flitwick knew a great deal about charms, but he was very old, and his mind was not as watchful as it used to be.

* * *

He can't see when the Draethos surges to its feet and decapitates the diminutive wizard, but he can see the head that lands beside him in the snow, the expression shocked and confused, blood pooling out of his neck; and he can hear the angry yell and following wet gurgle as the witch's voice is silenced. Screams rise anew like far-off sirens.

The Draethos enters his field of vision, looming over his head with teeth bared in an angry leer. Every instinct Obi-Wan possesses scrambles for a way to kill it before it kills him -

- his mind touches on his sabre, resting deep on the ocean floor. He feels a big, slow, solid and curious presence in the Living Force next to it, and with all the knowledge Qui-Gon ever crammed into his reluctant skull, hastily, desperately connects with the creature through the Living Force and asks –

The Draethos crouches beside him and raises a dripping, bloody arm, ignoring the sounds of chaos around them both like they're alone in the eye of a hurricane. It hisses and brings its arm down -

- Obi-Wan's lightsabre whips through the air, launched by a mighty heave of the giant squid, blue Force energy lighting up only as its proximity to Obi-Wan increases –

- the Draethos begins to turn, then jerks unnaturally when the sabre impales it through the chest.

It falls onto Obi-Wan, dead. He releases the Force from his sabre before it can cut through him, too, as the body smothers his nose and mouth with its mass and the scent of blood, and its weight knocks the breath from his lungs, and his view of the winter-white sky goes dark. With a lurch he shoves off the clinging bits of stunning spells, sticky like a spider web made of the Force, and shoves the body from him.

He lurches to his feet; the Force quickens his steps to his Master. The witches and wizards try to stop him but he brushes them away like flies; he has no time or energy for finesse or diplomacy. He falls to his knees near his Master's temple. Places one hand on his throat, giving all the healing Living Force he can muster. And with his other hand, does something he perhaps should have done a long time ago; he removes his Master from stasis.

All this in the space of seconds. There are hands grabbing at him; impatiently he swats them away with another blunt wave of the Force. They can't have him yet, not until he's healed his Master's throat and brought him from stasis...

He needs his Master to wake. He needs his Master. He needs Qui-Gon. He can't do this on his own anymore; he needs his Master awake and aware and with his Padawan and he needs his Master to need his Padawan, too.

The Force writhes; he loses consciousness in seconds.


	8. talks to the moon

-eight-  
_-talks to the moon-_

He comes to life slowly, and it's like he's in the Temple though he knows it can't be so – except that his mind feels cool and calm as a swamp garden, so it seems natural to wriggle unashamedly as any youngling into the embrace of green life all through his mind, the sound of running water echoing like far-off bird-cries, phantom scents of dirt and heat and citrus and sweet cradling his waking, and his Master –

– _his MASTER –_

– his Master, who only smiles, and reaches down to Obi-Wan, brushing his fingertips _just there _over the center space between Obi-Wan's eyes.

Obi-Wan wakes.

Qui-Gon's smiling.

"Padawan," is all he says, quietly, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle in welcome but Obi-Wan can't look away from the eyes themselves, depthless blue and pulling him in like localized gravity wells. For a moment he can't breathe as something strong and sharp and fragile and beautiful blossoms inside him, something that's been quietly growing but with the return of Qui-Gon's sun, like a curling vine raises itself to meet the rays that give it life; and he unfurls vividly and completely.

"Master," he says.

* * *

The meeting of their minds is calm and unhurried, as befitting Jedi, and slowly, in the exchange of images and non-specifics and memories, Qui-Gon learns of the planet from Obi-Wan, and of his Padawan's experiences upon it while his Master lay in healing sleep; and Obi-Wan learns of his master's dealings with the witches and wizards while he, in turn, lay in rest.

When they pull apart, threads of each linger in the other, softly twining as roots drifting underwater. Obi-Wan thinks no more on this fact but that it leaves both content.

"You've been busy, Padawan," Qui-Gon murmurs. "So many pathetic lifeforms that needed you." It's a joke that's just between him and Obi-Wan, and his smile is the one he has just for Obi-Wan, the one that's fond and teasing and careful all at once.

He swallows heavily. He doesn't have to say it, but he wants to. To make this more real. "You're awake, Master. I'm glad you're awake." Then he swallows again, and he whispers, "You're _alive_."

Qui-Gon hasn't stopped smiling. "So I am." He reaches down as if to cup Obi-Wan's hands in his, but pauses; so Obi-Wan reaches, inviting Qui-Gon to complete the motion. He does. Their hands are warm together. "I'm alive thanks to you, Padawan. I am very glad to see you again."

Obi-Wan just nods, and though with the lapse of elation, the dregs of hidden fatigue re-creep, he drinks his master's presence like one drowned in salt.

No doubt sensing this, Qui-Gon laughs, not unkindly; but there's an overlay of ragged relief that surprises Obi-Wan. "Your recovery was easier on me, I think." This, Obi-Wan thinks, may be true, but _easier _does not equal _easy. _Qui-Gon has been very worried. He has been asleep for nine days; Qui-Gon, awake for seven of them. "I had no doubts you would eventually wake – but you had no such assurances, Obi-Wan," his laugh gentles into something like concerned affection, "and it has drawn you."

Again, Obi-Wan nods. Most of what transpired, he has told his Master through the link between their minds: of the space pirates, the ocean crash, the hospital, the wizards, the centaurs, the illness, the droideka, the Draethos. But there are things he hasn't passed to his Master's mind, things he isn't sure how to broach but things he knows he will, eventually, because falsehood runs contrary to the nature of their bond.

Still – he is not ready to be so candid. He doubts he ever will be.

"Rest a while longer, if you need to, Padawan," Qui-Gon suggests. "The wizards do not expect a full accounting for a few hours yet."

Never as open with emotion as his Master, Obi-Wan's genuine smile is less with his mouth than with his eyes; Qui-Gon knows this.

While Obi-Wan lets his weight sink into the bed in the hospital wing at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, his Master, even in the ungainly chair scooted close to the side of the bed, composes himself in graceful lotus. His meditations drift along Obi-Wan's mind like a spring breeze through new leaves, and Obi-Wan sleeps.

* * *

"Right," Ron gnashed through a mouthful of toast, "Let me get this straight. Dumbledore really thinks everyone'll believe B- er, Obi-Wan's a reclusive Buddhist wizard-monk of some secretive Sri Lankan order no one's heard of who was here on some kind of spiritual quest, and that the thing that attacked the castle – wait, what did he say about that?"

"Yes, and nothing yet," Hermione answered primly, frowning in faint disapproval at the dusting of crumbs accumulating on the long table of the Great Hall. "Ron, you're making more work for the house-elves-"

"I bet Dumbledore lets people draw their own conclusions about the robot," Harry interjected hastily. "I mean, why would Dumbledore have an explanation any more than anyone else? Hogwarts was _attacked_. It's obvious he didn't invite it here."

"What about those Jedi?" Ron continued. "Is the one even still alive – the one with all the chopped-off limbs, I mean."

"I don't know, and Dumbledore said they were responsible for the robot." Hermione tapped her fork to her plate in thought. "Which they said themselves, they were. Other than that, he just said the Jedi Masters' involvement is being investigated."

Like wind-tossed snowflakes, owls swooped about the Great Hall as they had for days now, and as they probably would for some time. Nine days since the attack on the castle and it was still mainstream gossip in all the newspapers and on the lips of every Hogwarts student. Nine days since the death of the blue creature brought about the fall of the red barrier, and the Aurors, frustratingly close-mouthed, shuffled them back into the castle.

Nine days since Harry had seen Obi-Wan or Quinn.

"You think they're alive?" he mused aloud.

Hermione and Ron postponed their blossoming argument and turned towards him as one. "Who?" Ron asked. "The Jedi? Didn't we just-"

"No, Obi-Wan and Quinn."

"I think so," Hermione replied firmly. "The wizarding world is civilized – in principle, at least," she added with a deep scowl. "With the attack being as public as it was, they wouldn't just let them die without a fair trial."

"Wouldn't they?" Harry wondered darkly. "If they were already close to dead, it would be easy to just...forget to give them a crucial bit of medical attention. You can't question someone dead, and the attack goes down as officially unresolved."

Hermione opened her mouth like she had something to say, looking first to Harry then to Ron, then closed it and shrugged apologetically. Ron's mouth set in a grim line, his toast resting forlornly on his plate.

"Dad's been keeping his ear to the ground for any news. He doesn't think anyone's dead, not yet at least."

"What did he have to say about the attack?" Harry questioned.

"...He says he'll wait and see," Ron answered hesitatingly. "He won't say either way whether or not Obi-Wan's guilty of all those things those other Jedi accused him of. Or whether the killings were self-defense or premeditated."

"It's all very fishy." Hermione's lips pursed in annoyance. "I wish I could talk to Obi-Wan or Dumbledore, or that Jedi Master in the hospital wing-"

"-without arms and legs, because of Obi-Wan," Harry finished, frowning.

"No matter what else was going on out there," Hermione added disapprovingly, "I do believe Obi-Wan was unnecessarily violent, and should be made to answer for it."

Harry and Ron nodded in mutual more-or-less agreement – someone had to answer for the deaths that day, and they could only blame so much on the blue creature.

Then Hermione whispered, "I can't believe Professor Flitwick's dead," and neither Ron nor Harry had an answer for that but to look at the somber black banners decorating the Great Hall, and remember the equally somber funeral held several days prior. For a few minutes the three quieted and resumed eating breakfast, unenthusiastically.

Then Neville approached, looking flushed. "Harry," he said breathlessly, and turned. "Hermione, Ron – the Headmaster wants to see you in his office."

Immediately the eyes of every surrounding student fixed upon the three. Ignoring them and hastily abandoning his orange juice, Harry rose eagerly from the table, Ron and Hermione following suit. They traded a quick glance – this had to be the explanation they were waiting for – and lost no time leaving the Great Hall.

Expression wistful, Neville remained by the Gryffindor table and watched them leave.

* * *

Like a panther in repose, Quinn sat calmly next to Obi-Wan in measured grace. Tall and lean, silver-streaked brown hair unbound and long as any wizard's, nose large and crooked and expression kind, he smiled gently at the surrounding wizards even with his hands and legs bound both physically and magically. At his side was Obi-Wan, looking simultaneously exhausted and energized, bound as well but as tranquil as his father, appearing insultingly unashamed of his actions as they were read aloud to the assembled wizards.

"...and is assumed to have communicated, method and manner unknown, with the guardian giant squid of the lake," Kingsley announced, "at which point it accurately and precisely threw the Jedi Obi-Wan's weapon into the chest of the unidentified humanoid being, an action of which, it is universally believed, it would not have been capable under its own faculties. Referencing models of human anatomy and official autopsy reports, the humanoid's death is believed to be instantaneous."

In Dumbledore's magically enlarged office were squashed Dumbledore and McGonagall, the former bestowing upon all a pleasant equanimity, the latter expressionless but listening as intently as a cat stalking prey; the two Jedi under question, flanked on either side by Kingsley, monotonously reading the gold-speckled Ministry scroll, and Tonks, maroon-haired and twitching every so often as if with repressed eagerness; Harry, Ron, and Hermione, seated a bit to one side to better whisper to one another; Molly and Arthur Weasley, both of whom appeared puzzled and increasingly distressed; Ginny, wide-eyed and cautious; Snape, offering all a universal glare; and, looking habitually weary, Lupin. Evening light cast the office in oranges and reds, and the only sounds came from Kingsley's speech and the ever-present whirring and ticking of Dumbledore's many magical instruments.

"The Jedi Obi-Wan's weapon extinguished," Kingsley continued professionally, "and attempts to reignite it have so far been unsuccessful, further pointing to his involvement in the squid's actions. Upon arrival at the site of death, Auror Nymphadora Tonks found the Jedi Obi-Wan unconscious, a state in which it is confirmed by resident Nurse Poppy Pomfrey he remained in for nine consecutive days. Two days after the incident on the Hogwarts grounds, the man heretofore known as Quinn, self-introduced as Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn-"

- and here Harry, Ron, and Hermione traded looks, and Ron whispered decisively, "Knew it wasn't his real name," to which Hermione rolled her eyes, looking simultaneously fond and long-suffering -

"-awoke from an extended magical coma, the diagnosis of which remains undetermined. The Jedi Master has spoken for his apprentice in agreeing to a full accounting of the events mentioned, as well as agreeing to face with his apprentice any and all given consequences, of which shall also be determined."

Kingsley let go of the scroll; with a flash like light reflecting off a mirror, it rolled up and compressed into the size of a toothpick and secured itself in one of the Auror's pockets. He turned to Obi-Wan, who met his eyes calmly.

"We will now hear your accounting of events. For the sake of clarity and in respect for all here, we ask that no questions be put forth until you have finished."

Did Kingsley just glance towards him and his friends?

Obi-Wan dipped his head. "Of course." His long braid hung over his shoulder, strands poking out haphazardly, and his hair seemed longer and shaggier than Harry remembered. He didn't look at his father.

"My Master and I are not from the planet Earth."

Stunned silence. Someone – Snape, Harry thought – scoffed quietly. Harry looked first to Dumbledore, but couldn't make out the old wizard's expression. He looked back to Obi-Wan. Surely he couldn't be serious?

"I would like to extend a formal greeting from the Jedi Temple of Coruscant, Central Space, to the people of Earth, Wild Space, and specifically to the inhabitants of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he continued, voice quieter than Kingley's booming bass but just as professional. He met each of their eyes – not confrontationally in the least, but with a strength Harry hadn't seen there before. He wondered where it came from.

"We are honored to have had such gracious hosts as the Weasley family and Herd of the Forbidden Forest, and to have had Headmaster Dumbledore's kind offer of an extended stay on the grounds. We hope our future relations will continue more pleasantly than their beginnings."

Ron whistled quietly beside him. "Diplomat much?" Harry nodded in silent agreement – though it was taking all his willpower to stay his tongue. How was Obi-Wan able to talk so well all of a sudden? It sent a new wave of suspicion creeping along his spine. Had Obi-Wan fooled them in that, too? Had he always known English?

But, more importantly – space? Could he really believe that? He looked around himself, and though everyone's face bore varying degrees of skepticism, no one objected. Why wasn't someone raising a protest?

Right on cue, "If we're to believe that I'll need some more proof," Hermione whispered decisively to Harry and Ron. But as Kingsley asked, she didn't interrupt otherwise.

"Yeah," Harry agreed quietly. People claimed they were abducted by aliens all the time, or that aliens were out there, and none of it was real.

Though if he'd been asked as a kid whether or not magic was real, he would have said no. And look how that turned out.

"Know that neither I, Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi, nor my Master –" and here Harry sucked in a quick breath.

"Master?" he whispered heatedly. Not that word again; it was one thing to be considered a Master of a subject; another thing entirely to be a Master of someone else.

Hermione looked like she was about to reply when Obi-Wan spoke again, recapturing her attention. She gave him a sympathetic smile. Harry quietly fumed.

"- never intended any harm to befall the people of this planet, and offer our most sincere condolences for the death of Professor Flitwick." He paused in what was obviously a respectful gesture.

"Now please allow me to begin explanations long overdue." Obi-Wan paused again, but this time it seemed in thought. The room's inhabitants held their breath in expectation. Then he started telling his tale, and Harry and the rest of the room listened.

"For over a year, my Master and I trailed a slaving ring."

Harry grimaced in horror, and he wasn't the only one. Beside him Hermione looked self-righteously aghast; Ron, equally grim. Obi-Wan's expression didn't change. Harry frowned. Didn't it make him mad?

"Several months ago, we followed a particular vessel to the planet Icthilia. We sought the aid of the locals, who happened to be heavily involved in the human trafficking. We were summarily chased offworld with liberal application of violence. During our temporary retreat, we felt an unusually strong, untrained presence in the Force. Thinking it a potential Jedi, we attempted a course taking us closer to the presence. However, we encountered a far more dangerous individual, an enemy of the Jedi known as a Sith.

"We surprised him as much as he surprised us, I believe. We fought; he inflicted a near-mortal wound on my Master." Obi-Wan's tone grew hard. "I gave him back the same." He paused, and this time his face shifted as if about to look at the man beside him; but he caught himself, visibly unclenched his jaw and took a series of deep breaths. He ignored the strange looks he was given while doing so.

"Then the locals came, and I was forced to flee again, taking my Master with me. I could not tarry to ensure the Sith's death." He shook his head. "He must have had a remote detonation device implanted on the slaver ship. When I made it to the docking bay, it was in pieces, along with a large portion of the bay." His voice quieted. "The strong Force presence had been silenced, as well as those of all the other slaves."

For a moment, he seemed very sad.

"Our ship had long since been torn apart by the locals," Obi-Wan resumed at a more normal volume, "most likely as soon as we walked out of the bay upon landing. I stole one of the remaining vessels – a small medical transport, equipped to handle five or fewer patients. I made it offworld and put my Master into a tank filled with a healing liquid we call bacta, then set a return course to the nearest planet with permanently stationed Jedi. Partly to our destination, we were attacked by space pirates looking for entertainment. They destroyed multiple control panels of our vessel. I could no longer direct our path.

"We were pulled into the gravity of your planet, which is unmarked on any of our maps and does not show on scans." He frowned slightly. "I do not know why this is or I would tell you, so do not think it duplicity on my part that I do not.

"I prepared for our emergency landing. When we had cleared the atmosphere and were within a safe distance of the ocean, I jumped from the ship with my Master and landed in a body of water I would later learn to be the North Sea. The ship crashed, and I destroyed the remnants before swimming to shore. Once there, I came across a small family of centaurs with a sick foal. I was able to heal the foal; in return, the mare helped us travel to St. Mungo's Hospital. At the hospital, my Master lay in healing sleep, and I waited for him to wake and worked on deciphering your written language. It was then that Mrs. Weasley came to visit a friend and saw us.

"You know what followed directly; kind as she is," he nodded towards Mrs. Weasley with a small smile, but she only gave him a weak one in return. "She opened her home to us, and I accepted, needing a more permanent base from which to ascertain where we were, heal my Master, and find a way offworld. I left often to search the surrounding area. I visited several local towns regularly, reading newspapers to learn what I could of your planet. You believed the crashing vessel to be a meteorite, I think," he added.

"Yes, they thought it was a meteorite," Harry said in an undertone, "but if we believe his story, it was the UFO nuts who had it right, wasn't it?"

"That's a big 'if,'" Hermione put in pointedly. "So far, I'm not convinced." She hesitated. "Though his story does fill in several important gaps..."

"Soon after," Obi-Wan resumed, "the centaur Henna, sister to the foal Morgwen, sought my aid to heal her father. I answered her need. Before I left, I put my Master into a state called stasis, in which the body is still alive, but functioning extremely slowly, so slow as to seem nearly dead. In this way I was able to leave him, knowing he would remain stable until my return.

"I came to the Forbidden Forest to heal Tanos, a Herdleader, father of Henna and Morgwen, and mate of Herdleader Callidora. Though I was able to heal him, other cases sprang anew. And I am no trained Healer," he admitted plainly. "I could heal the symptoms, but I could not be sure I was fully eradicating the disease, nor conclude how to prevent its spread. I needed additional wisdom, and so I left the Herd and returned to my Master, intending to take him out of stasis and let him finish healing, hopefully in time to help the Herd.

"However, circumstances and my own decision made me wait to remove him from stasis. Upon reuniting with the Herd, I deemed it necessary to alert this Castle. It was on my descent from a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore that the droideka attacked."

Obi-Wan leaned forward slightly, looking keen and sharp-eyed as a hawk. He gave each person in the room a moment's attention; upon Harry's turn, Harry did his best to read into the Jedi's intentions, as if the truth of his tale was written on his face. But Obi-Wan was inscrutable; in fact, he only smiled a tiny bit, as if he knew what Harry was up to. Then it was Hermione's turn, and Harry was a little glad to have that unnervingly incisive gaze off himself.

"I ask for your patience. Some of what I must now explain requires your non-judgmental stance, as it will present a very different view of the events that transpired that afternoon." Obi-Wan waited a moment, appearing untroubled. He had no way to ensure that they listened, though. How was he so calm in the face of such great uncertainty?

Harry looked at Jinn, still and serene as a Buddha statue.

"Droidekas are dangerous machines, built specifically to kill Jedi," Obi-Wan stated, a hint of latent mourning buried somewhere beneath his grim tone. "They are very good at what they do; know that without the aid of Headmaster Dumbledore and Deputy Headmistress McGonagall in getting it in the lake, it could have very well killed me, and then we might have had a very different conclusion to that day. In the water it was considerably slower and more cumbersome. I was able to destroy it. I don't know from where the droideka came, but I suspect the Draethos somehow acquired it. I do know that while I was fighting the droideka, the force shield was activated. I am told after my Master's awakening, he disabled it."

"Built just to kill those kinds of blokes?" Ron whispered, tilting his head towards the captive Jedi. "Wouldn't like something gunning for me like that, mate."

"Of course," Harry replied blandly. "Wouldn't know what that was like, to have something out to kill you."

Ron scowled. "Oh come on now, that's not what I meant-"

"_Shh."_ Hermione glared at them impatiently, then ignored them in favor of listening to Obi-Wan. Harry and Ron looked at each other with narrowed eyes a moment more before Harry grinned and shrugged, and Ron did the same, and they both let the incident pass.

"-did not understand all of what transpired until I saw the Draethos," Obi-Wan was saying. "Seeing him was...illuminating."

"Er, what's a Draethos?" Harry whispered to whichever of his friends might know the answer.

Which was, of course, Hermione. Without taking her eyes from the Jedi she replied, "The blue creature."

"The man-hag," Ron said. She elbowed him, and he smiled a little and so did she when she thought he wasn't looking, and Harry felt a tiny bit lonesome.

"-the two Jedi, who were not," Obi-Wan emphasized, "real Jedi. Not at that point. Draethos naturally have telepathic powers, but this one was unusually strong. I believe he had somehow destroyed their minds." The barest hint of cold anger. "Then he controlled their bodies as puppets. If you recall, I did not expect the arrival of two Jedi any more than you did. This is because Jedi can normally feel one another in the Force. As these Jedi no longer had their minds, I could not feel them.

"The false male Jedi met me at the edge of the lake and used an ancient phrase to invoke my obedience. I realize during my confusion some of you tried to address me." He met the eyes of Harry, Ron, and Hermione, then turned to Dumbledore. "I apologize for my lack of response. I was not in a state to reply. I do appreciate your championing my case, however."

He half-bowed, as much as his bonds would allow. Dumbledore nodded solemnly.

Obi-Wan addressed the group once more. "I do not know what the Draethos told you through the voice of the female Jedi, except for that which I was there to hear. I would have left with them except that the male Jedi asked for the small red device he told you would free you from the force field. This was a lie." His tone grew flat. "It was a detonator."

Several indrawn breaths, then. Beside him Hermione was literally biting her lip to keep herself from asking questions.

"This is why I killed the male Jedi. He was going to detonate the area between the field generators, and kill everyone in it."

This time several people exclaimed aloud their disbelief, though they were quickly shushed by a glare from Kingsley; Obi-Wan let the clamor die down before he continued.

"I attacked the remaining false Jedi to incapacitate, intending to question her. During my attack the elf Dobby picked up the detonator, and I was forced to put him to sleep." He paused, and his eyes flickered towards Harry. "That is all I did. I am told he woke up several hours later with no adverse effects.

"After I cut off her arm-" and how could Obi-Wan say a gruesome statement like that so matter-of-factly? "-I asked her to surrender. She refused. I further incapacitated her, but when I again asked questions of her she did not respond. I know now that was because the Draethos had loosed his hold on her mind, which was damaged too thoroughly to be able to respond. As neither I nor my Master have been in contact with her since, I cannot say whether or not the damage is irreparable.

"Then the Draethos showed himself and my Master with him." Again Obi-Wan's face tensed, the skin around his eyes pinching as they narrowed a fraction. "He attempted to kill my Master." A hard edge to his voice. "Only because my Master was still in stasis did he survive. Had his organs been functioning at a normal rate, he would have bled to death within minutes." He made another almost-there aborted motion towards Jinn, but checked himself and paused to take several slow breaths.

His Master remained as serene as ever.

"I fought the Draethos, and your Aurors arrived and incapacitated us both. I immediately set to work undoing the spells, and I assume the Draethos did the same." He didn't look the least bit ashamed to admit it in front of the Aurors in question. He even dipped his chin towards Tonks in a comradely sort of way, as if he expected her to completely understand. Tonks grinned fiercely.

"However, I believe he also latched onto the mind of the deceased Professor Flitwick, convincing him to aid in the Draethos' escape attempts. The Draethos broke free of the spells, killed the Professor, and attacked me. I was only able to kill him with the aid of your giant squid, who was gracious enough to throw my lightsabre to me. I merely redirected its aim. And that is all that has transpired; I leave you to decide the veracity of the events I described."

"Thank you," Kingsley said politely. He turned towards the rest of the room. "I now open the floor for questioning."

Predictably, Hermione was the first to speak. "What planet _are_ you from, then?" She leaned forward in her seat eagerly, interest shining bright in her eyes.

"My home planet is hot; that is all I know."

She frowned. "You don't know where you're from?"

"No."

"Then how do you know what species you are?"

He shrugged slightly. "The Jedi who found me took note of it."

"Who 'found' you? Just how are Jedi picked-"

Kingsley cleared his throat. "Questions pertinent to the events mentioned."

"You keep talking about something called the Force," Tonks asked with interest, craning around to better see the younger Jedi, hair switching rapidly between shades of yellow and pink. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"

Obi-Wan blinked slowly. "The Force is everything."

"Everything?" she prompted.

"Everything that is, was, and will be," Obi-Wan explained calmly, surely, with an undertone of solemn conviction, sounding much older than his years. "The Force exists in every one of us at all times. If one learns to listen, it can guide. If one learns to speak its language – those, are Jedi: those who communicate with the Force."

"Can anyone learn its language?" Kingsley suddenly boomed. Obi-Wan's head tilted slightly to the side, and he regarded Kingsley as if through a haze of exotic mysticism, everything about him growing more and more foreign the more he talked, eyes keen as a hawk's.

"In theory, yes, though those whose calling it is to become Jedi are usually given certain proclivities, and usually make their way to the Temple in some fashion or other."

"Can you prove any of this?" Openly curious, Hermione watched Obi-Wan with an analytical glint to her eye. "That this Force exists?"

"Yes and no." Still with that sense of mystery.

"Would you consider following the Force a religion?"

"No, though to many it would appear to be so."

He loved Hermione as a dear friend, he really did, but sometimes she got so caught up in minutiae she forgot about the really important stuff. As the banter continued Harry finally couldn't take it anymore and burst out, "Why did you lie to us all this time?"

Eyes turned to him, but Harry kept his on Obi-Wan, who turned to him with blue eyes unhurried.

"I did not lie. Everything I said was truth. I did not, however, say much." At least he looked regretful.

"So, lies by omission, then," Harry stated accusingly.

"I would say no, but you would say yes." Which wasn't really an answer at all.

"By the way, just how are you speaking so clearly now?" Lupin interjected hastily, always a peacemaker. "When you stayed with the Weasleys, your English was far from this level of sophistication."

Harry let it go, but he gave Lupin a look that said he knew what his former professor was up to. For a second Lupin glanced at him, part stern and part apologetic.

"There is a technique Jedi use for the rapid assimilation of language," Obi-Wan explained patiently. "It makes communication on newfound planets much easier. It involves...borrowing the language from a willing mind. In other words," he added, "A local must volunteer to share his mind with the Jedi's, transferring through memories, images, and thoughts, the language of his planet. It is an intimate process. But it is always done voluntarily," he emphasized emphatically.

"Why didn't you do it as soon as you landed here?" Ron asked.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "It is always done voluntarily," he repeated. "I had no one from whom I would feel comfortable borrowing language and who would feel comfortable being borrowed from, and I would not force the process upon anyone."

Ron nodded, though he frowned. "Yes, but – it sure would have made it a lot easier for you, wouldn't it?"

Obi-Wan dipped his chin once in a nod, and only replied with a small smile.

Molly piped up, "Why didn't you get more medical attention for your father?"

Obi-Wan blinked, appearing genuinely surprised. "My what?"

His father chuckled quietly. Obi-Wan shot him a quick frown, looking oddly flustered and, for a moment, very human.

"Your father," Mrs. Weasley repeated, less surely now, glancing between the two Jedi uncertainly. "Mr. Jinn."

"Ah." Obi-Wan regained his composure as rapidly as if he'd never lost it; a small smile lingered on Jinn's lips. "Yes, in many ways, he is my father. But in the way to which I believe you refer – biological – he is not." Mrs. Weasley kept watching him expectantly, but Obi-Wan's expression was placid, and he didn't elaborate on the subject.

"He's not your dad?" Ron blurted, then reddened. But Obi-Wan only smiled that small smile at him, and shook his head.

"Well, alright then," Ron said self-consciously, and looked elsewhere in the room, as if reassuring himself he wasn't the only one surprised – which he wasn't. It seemed they'd all assumed, erroneously, that the pair were biological father and son.

So if they weren't father and son, what were they?

"And as to medical attention – your planet couldn't supply him with the attention he needed."

"And you could?" Lupin asked keenly.

Obi-Wan nodded solemnly. "I could, but only to an extent, and temporarily. I am not a trained Jedi Healer."

"Are you human?" Harry suddenly asked, surprising himself with his own daring. Again, all eyes turned to face him; he squared his shoulders resolutely. It was a valid question.

"Not your particular subspecies, but both my Master and I are humanoid."

"And what does that mean?" Harry asked challengingly.

Obi-Wan remained unruffled. "Certain anatomical differences and deviant sleeping patterns are the most remarkable of each of our subspecies' characteristics in comparison to yours."

"What sort of sleeping patterns?" Hermione inquired with interest, as Ron gave Harry a look.

"By nature, I am crepuscular."

Hermione's face lit up. "Really? How have you adapted to our diurnal schedule?"

He smiled slightly. "I haven't. Recall how I left the Weasleys' home at odd times of day?"

"_Oh..._" Hermione said with the air of someone catching on.

It was McGonagall, who had been quiet until now, who surprised them all by addressing a question not to Obi-Wan, but to Jinn.

"And you?" she raised a brow. "Are you content to be represented by a youth barely past adolescence?"

Jinn smiled with evident humor. It was a more relaxed, open expression than Obi-Wan's by far. "Yes."

"By your planet's reckoning, I am twenty," Obi-Wan contributed helpfully. Twenty, which was both younger and older than Harry would have guessed.

"I am sure my Padawan would be happy to entertain any more questions you may have," Jinn suggested. Hermione was only too happy to indulge.

"When you spoke with the Jedi, what did you and they say?"

Obi-Wan turned to her calmly. "The male told me his partner would go into the woods to see to the centaurs. He told me to come with him. I asked if the female could look over my Master as well." He frowned. "She agreed, but told me I'd have to tell her where he was in order to do so. This was an oversight on my part. Were she truly Jedi, she would have been able to find him easily on her own. Then the male asked for the device, 'to free them.' This device was the force field detonator. This was when I surmised he was not truly Jedi, and dealt with him in the quickest way possible to ensure he did not detonate the field."

"You killed him," Kingsley rephrased calmly.

"Yes." Obi-Wan's hands lay still in his lap, even in the bonds. "I killed him." Try as he might, Harry couldn't detect any inflection in the Jedi's voice.

"That isn't the first person you've killed, is it," Mr. Weasley stated with a tired frown and a tone of disappointment.

"No, it is not."

"Bit of a dangerous profession, eh?" Harry asked with a hint of challenge. Obi-Wan only met his eyes and smiled briefly, a little shadow over his eyes.

Jinn, however – Jinn looked right at Harry until Harry met his gaze, and even then he didn't look away. His expression was thoughtful. Harry raised an eyebrow daringly; Jinn smiled, then looked away.

"Why did you invite us here?" Mrs. Weasley wrung her hands a bit, seeming both angry and worried. "I mean, not that I mind, but this seems a matter more for the Aurors and those involved. Arthur and I, we weren't even there."

"You sheltered my Master and me during a time in which we desperately needed shelter," Obi-Wan explained with evident gratitude, his voice warming. "I consider it only fair recompense that I explain myself to all those who helped me. I invited the rest of your family," he added, "but for various reasons, they were unable to attend. Were it not for the quarantine, I also would have invited several centaurs."

"So it wasn't just me and Gin," Ron muttered. Hermione gave him a sympathetic look and a pat on the shoulder; Harry just pretended he hadn't heard, as he would have wanted Ron to do had Harry said something personal.

"...know how the droideka was able to function within school grounds?" Lupin was saying, gazing at both Obi-Wan, Jinn, and Dumbledore.

Obi-Wan looked at Dumbledore and nodded, an obvious deferral.

Dumbledore smiled brightly. "You are quite polite, but unfortunately I am just as flummoxed as Remus."

Obi-Wan nodded again, then turned to Lupin. "I have heard of this school's ability to cause a malfunction in any mechanical devices brought inside. I surmise that the droideka, as it has the ability to think, was considered a living being."

"Ah." Lupin nodded, expression clearing as if he understood. "And since magical beings are defined by their ability to think in some form-" and Harry had a feeling his former professor wasn't saying this aloud for his own benefit, "-it wasn't attacked by the school's magic."

"I believe so."

Beside Harry, Hermione was nodding rapidly in agreement, eyes fixed intently on Obi-Wan, whispering to herself, "Yes, yes that would make sense-"

"And the detonator?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking a bit excited at using a new Muggle word.

"Force-based, and therefore magical – consider Headmaster Dumbledore's clocks." Obi-Wan tilted his head towards the miniature herd of clocks ticking on his desk, on the mantel, and scattered throughout the room, whirring away busily. "They are mechanical, yet also magical, and so function within the school's walls."

"And your sword?" Ginny piped up.

"My lightsabre is also a construct of both mechanical origin and the Force, though one activated by the user's presence."

"Which is why we can't get the blasted things to light," Tonks put in wryly. Obi-Wan gave her the smallest bit of a crooked smile, and nodded. "So how do you activate it?"

"There are crystals embedded in the hilt of the sword that can channel the Force," Obi-Wan explained. "One trained in the use of the Force can focus it into the crystal and create a physical manifestation of the Force. Each crystal is finely attuned to its individual user, making it very difficult for the sabre to be used by anyone other than the intended."

"What about the droideka's attacks?" Lupin returned to the subject of the living machine with interest. "The Headmaster was unable to block them." And it went without saying that anything Dumbledore couldn't block, simply couldn't be blocked.

"A force field or a lightsabre are the only things that can deflect droideka fire." Obi-Wan shook his head. "It is my guess that anything shot from a wand, meaning magic spells, is deflectable by a magic shield. Anything else – such as droideka blasts, which have a very corporeal presence – is not."

"The inability to block Muggle bullets has always been a failing of the magical community," Dumbledore suddenly remarked, sounding very solemn, "and the cause of many deaths."

"I suppose it does make sense," Lupin agreed seriously.

The questioning continued on for another few minutes, mostly by Kingsley, who seemed to want more details about Obi-Wan's initial mission, crash landing on Earth, and activities since. Then several of Dumbledore's clocks played twinkling little melodies, and Dumbledore called a halt.

"I believe it is time the students return to class, and our Jedi guests to the hospital wing," he said, rising to his feet with a merry clap of his hands.

"Quite right." Tonks nodded with a wink and mischievous grin towards Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Harry and Ron shared a groan at the thought of class as she and Kingsley began shuffling Obi-Wan and Jinn from the room. Meanwhile, McGonagall's stern gaze made it clear she expected obedience from her Gryffindors.

Still – Harry wasn't missing this opportunity. He'd brave a little of McGonagall's wrath, and with that in mind, gave Obi-Wan one last look, then went over to Lupin, who watched his approach with kind eyes.

"Professor, I was wondering what you could tell me about Sirius..."

* * *

When the wizards have locked them in their hospital cell for the night, Obi-Wan unhurriedly allows his eyes to open, stands from his lotus on the floor, calmly paces over to the single window, then stills. A few snowflakes fall, drifting airily in the wind like feathers. The night isn't yet in complete darkness, and a full moon shines silver lights like icicles across the snow. His Master remains seated, but he can feel Qui-Gon's mind returning from meditation, then his eyes tracking his presence across the room. The two beds, as yet made neatly, separate the space between them.

His Master waits. Obi-Wan looks up at the moon and is silent for a long while.

Then he speaks. "Master, they," he swallows, "they used the Call to obedience on me. Did I-"

"You did not deserve that, Obi-Wan. Never believe you did."

Curled in the shoulders, Obi-Wan whispers, "I was not wrong to act as I did? It matters little that the Master turned out to be mind-controlled. I still chose to disobey a senior."

"No true Jedi Master would use the Call so lightly, knowing the amount of self-doubt it can cause." Qui-Gon's voice washes over him like the gentle waves of a pond over sand, smoothing over his uncertainty. Still–

"But what about the Darkness?"

Now Qui-Gon stands quietly, without hurry, his footsteps padding softly across the floor. He pauses at his Padawan's side, then takes a step closer and palms his shoulder gently. "What do you think?"

He thinks he can barely stand the close presence of his Master, so close and yet unreachable. An errant strand of his Master's hair touches his cheek; Obi-Wan represses a shudder.

"I think," he licks his lips, then swallows again, "I think there is some truth. Master. I reached for the Force when my mind was not calm, and so accessed it through the Dark Side. There was necessity, but – I think I need your help, Master, to cleanse myself."

His Master squeezes his shoulder. "Alright."

"What should I do?" Obi-Wan whispers. "I – I can feel it in me, Master." Like the creeping of rust over iron, slowly corroding. His Master closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, they are a very sharp blue.

He can see the moon reflected in Qui-Gon's eyes.

"You'll come with me to the North Pole."

"...Master?"

"There are planets used for growing Force crystals, Obi-Wan," his Master says. He has not removed his hand from Obi-Wan's shoulder, and his palm slowly warms the skin beneath the cloth. "I suspect we are on one, and that the two Jedi were stationed here solely to tend to the crystals. There are glaciers in the north, far from civilization, in which a crystal nursery could very readily exist." He pauses, then adds, "There may in fact be two stations; one in the north and one in the south. But we are closer to the north."

Obi-Wan ignores the addendum in favor of the introduction. He is faintly surprised. "How do you know of this, Master?"

"I've helped find planets well-suited to growing crystals before, Padawan. Planets strong in the Living Force." Ah. That would be an area of his Master's expertise. "The poles tend to hold the strongest concentrations. At the North Pole perhaps we shall find answers as to what happened on this planet."

Obi-Wan nods, waiting; he trusts in his Master to know his lingering thoughts.

And he does. "As for the Darkness, Padawan – I think it best that you release your hold on the Force for now," he says gently. "Let it go for a while, Padawan. You have had a stranglehold on the Force for a very long time. Let yourself breathe and be human."

"Abstain from using the Force?" Obi-Wan is taken aback. "Master, the Force is air to me."

"And for now, I shall give you breath," his Master says softly, and puts his other hand on Obi-Wan's other shoulder, facing him fully. "I will be Jedi enough for both of us, as you have been for me. Let go for now, Obi-Wan," he encourages kindly, earnestly. "When you are at peace once more, the Force will find you."

Obi-Wan looks at the silver moon glinting in the deep blue of his Master's eyes.

"Yes, Master."


	9. living sin

_*warning for non-graphic description of dubious self-harm, and Obi-Wan at his lowest. (He shall rally, never fear)_*

-nine-  
_-living sin-_

Their sentencing doesn't come until several days later; when it does, his Master seems pleased with the results. For the man, Draethos, and droideka – considered living by the castle and therefore by the wizards as well – justifiable homicide as a result of self-defense against deadly force; and for the woman, use of non-deadly self-defense.

"Probation, of a sort," Qui-Gon comments of the actual ramifications of Obi-Wan's actions, smiling down at his Padawan. Then his mien turns mischievous, and he adds, "We can maneuver around this."

"Master." Obi-Wan frowns. His Master laughs, sending his good humor and reassurance along their bond.

Probation turns out to be a rotating slew of several Aurors instructed to faithfully dog their steps around the castle grounds, which they are forbidden to leave. Obi-Wan supposes the idea behind this near-house arrest has more to do with keeping them a secret than any true punishment, as the wizards, in a demonstration of how remarkably accustomed they are to the strange and unbelievable, seem to have accepted his story as truth. It doesn't, however, change the fact that he killed three beings, and they appear quite leery of letting him meander around unaccompanied. He suspects only the insistence of Dumbledore as to the goodness of his character has given them this much leeway.

"We should go," he says to his Master one evening, secreted away in what have become their chambers, a set of three nondescript rooms located high in a seldom-used tower of the castle, and one of the few places they are allowed any privacy. He sets down his fork, watching his Master look up from the meal Obi-Wan prepared and do the same. His Master says nothing for a long while. Then: "I agree."

They try to reason with their Auror guard when it's the pink-haired one's shift. She's younger, more playful, and more likely to go along with potential law-breaking than the older, more grizzled guard with the spinning eye.

"Miss Tonks," Obi-Wan begins. They're in one of several teachers' lounges scattered throughout the castle; the furniture is colored in worn browns and blues, and the window is magic-made, a very creative use of the Force – and one that shouldn't be possible. What is it about this planet that allows such ingenuity?

"Yes?" She turns with a pleasant demeanor. She's been idly changing objects in the room pink, bored perhaps by their continued meditation. Now Obi-Wan rises from his lotus on the floor and comes to stand in front of her, unconfrontationally. His Master remains seated and unmoving. He feels his Master's touch in his mind like the flow of water over smooth stones and green moss.

He wonders what he feels like in his Master's mind.

"You're aware of the Herd's plight?"

She frowns. "Of course I am. Poor things. But what can a person do? Poppy and that Auror mediwitch tried to get in, you know," she adds conspiratorially, cupping her hand around the side of her mouth. "But they got stuck at the border." She eyes Obi-Wan. "Very forcefully, they were told by the Herd to stay out. Something about a quarantine, initiated by a certain wizard whom they very much demand to get back. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?"

Obi-Wan gives her a small smile. "And would a certain Auror be kind enough to allow us access to the Herd, so that we may continue our work?"

"You know I'd like to," she sighs, her hair changing to a melancholy gray. "But Kingsley was adamant you don't cause any more commotion, and he reports directly to the Minister. I trust him, and he's doing what he can for you guys. So far you're not in deep legal trouble because Obi-Wan here acted in self-defense and to protect others." She jerks her head towards Obi-Wan. "_And_," she adds emphatically, "Because we've kept your origins a secret. Except for one case, and, well...it's only due to those special circumstances we told you about. But if you start breaking the law deliberately, that's another matter. Kingsley couldn't turn a blind eye to that. You break enough laws badly enough, he won't be able to help you avoid Azkaban."

Obi-Wan nods slightly. "I see. And is there no way we could speak to the Minister?"

"Scrimgeour?" She makes a face. "He's better than Fudge, but I'll tell you, not by much. He doesn't give a damn about non-humans. It's best to just let Kingsley handle it; he's got Scrimgeour's ear more than just about anyone else."

Obi-Wan blinks slowly. "I see."

She sighs again. "Look, I feel for them, I really do, and normally I'd be right there on your side helping you break loose. I would. But Remus's lobby for werewolf equality is in consideration, and the Ministry's just looking for an excuse to turn it down. It's no secret – everyone at the Ministry knows we're dating. If I help you out and I get caught, it'll reflect poorly on him, and then it'll be all werewolves that suffer because of it. Don't make me choose between werewolves and centaurs when they're all just treated so miserably."

Obi-Wan nods slightly again. "I understand. I will not ask it of you." He takes a step forward.

Tonks slowly recoils. "I told you I can't help you or your...Master." Gradual as the coming of the sunset, Obi-Wan gives her a gentle wave of well-being and acceptance. Her eyes become less guarded, but she remains vigilant.

When Obi-Wan takes another step towards her, she draws her wand, warily. "What are you about, now?" she asks authoritatively, but a telltale glance at Qui-Gon, as if asking for back-up, reveals a little bewilderment. Clearly she doesn't want to hurt them, and in fact wants to think well of them. His Master, however, is no help; he sits with eyes closed and is as unmoving as ever, seemingly oblivious.

"I will not ask you to help us," Obi-Wan repeats clearly, then draws two fingers in an arc through the air. "In fact, you did all you could to keep us from leaving, and if anyone asks, that is what you will say."

"That's right, I did all I could to keep you from leaving," she repeats indignantly. Her hair turns a brilliant scarlet.

Obi-Wan nods. "Yes." Then he calmly touches her forehead; she wavers, and he catches her when she falls, fast asleep. He picks her up and carries her to a couch, previously blue, turned pink, and lays her down.

Then he turns. "Master."

In one motion his Master rises. "Well done, Padawan," he praises quietly. He takes a step closer to Obi-Wan in much the same way as Obi-Wan had walked towards the witch. But he doesn't lift his hand with the intent to induce sleep, merely touches the center space between Obi-Wan's eyes with two fingertips. "You've gotten gentler since I was asleep."

Obi-Wan isn't sure what to make of that, though the praise makes him feel warm and the touch, warmer.

No doubt sensing his uncertainty, his Master smiles. "Compassion suits you, Padawan."

Now Obi-Wan understands. "Thank you, Master," he says, giving a very deep bow to show his complete respect. His Master reaches out to touch his shoulder when Obi-Wan rights himself. But he doesn't say anything, just looks at his Padawan with deep blue eyes, no longer smiling but something increasingly intense in his expression. Obi-Wan watches Qui-Gon's face change. Wants to touch him back-

And can't stand it. "My sabre," he blurts. His Master blinks, hand going back to his side.

"Obi-Wan?"

"My sabre," Obi-Wan explains, holding out the tube as if offering it for a long enough duration will coax his Master to accept. "Take it, Master."

His Master shakes his head. "No, Padawan. The blade is attuned to you; I shouldn't be able to use it."

Obi-Wan watches a sleek brown strand of his Master's hair tickle across his cheek. He thinks it could be his fingers doing the touching-

No.

"Master, I-" but he breaks off with a slight frown. Qui-Gon's eyes gentle. "Go on."

"I don't expect you'd have a problem using my sabre," Obi-Wan explains, watching his Master for a reaction very intently, "as I have had no problem using yours."

His Master's expression becomes very, very composed, but not before a flash of pleased surprise. That fluttering in his heart returns with full force, distractingly, so that he doesn't pay much attention to Qui-Gon's verbal response; something about similar Force signatures after working so long together.

"-should keep it," his Master finishes. Obi-Wan blinks. Hesitates, then: "Master?"

Qui-Gon smiles. "You keep it, Obi-Wan," and here he reaches forward gingerly, wraps his hands around Obi-Wan's and curls them together over the hilt of his sabre. "It's yours, and I trust you to use it well."

Obi-Wan feels the heat between their hands before Qui-Gon releases him. His Master's smile turns crooked and roguish for a moment, and the blue of his eyes shines dark and deep.

Then his Master turns and begins to walk out of the lounge, pace measured and exact. A step back and to the left, Obi-Wan follows.

* * *

Several days passed with no word from Dumbledore or any of the Order, and Harry was beginning to get restless. So when the week rolled into the weekend, Harry, Ron, and Hermione skipped Hogsmeade in favor of traipsing up to the Headmaster's office. The corridors were mostly empty, and their footsteps echoed up the spiral staircases as they climbed to his tower. At their request, Nearly Headless Nick floated along beside them, chattering away merrily about his last days among the living.

At the gargoyle, however, he bade them adieu and coasted off into the wall, head wobbling a bit unsteadily.

"And now we wait," Harry said. And they waited.

It wasn't long before the gargoyle cocked its head at them curiously but gracefully stepped to the side, claws clicking on the worn gray stone, forked tongue coming out to flick through the air.

"Awesome," Ron said appreciatively. They stepped past the gargoyle in time to see Nick rematerialize through the wall and gave him their thanks, to which he nodded regally, head flopping forward to expose his neck. Hermione winced and looked away.

Dumbledore's door was invitingly open, so they let themselves in, the wizard in question greeting them brightly from behind his desk.

"Good morning," Dumbledore said, smiling and drawing up several chairs with three neat flicks of his wand. "Sir Nicholas said you'd like to speak with me? Have a seat." As they did, Dumbledore twirled his wand and conjured a plate of crumpets and several mugs of tea, which floated beside each of them enticingly. Harry could swear his cozy green mug winked at him.

"Would anyone care for some refreshment?"

"I'll take one," Ron enthused, helping himself to a crumpet and, when Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, taking a second. Hermione glanced at him with disapproval when he proceeded to shove as much of one as he could in his mouth.

"Now," Dumbledore began, steepling his fingers and regarding the three students over his spectacles, "how may I be of assistance?"

"You see," Harry started when both Ron and Hermione looked at him, "we haven't heard anything about the trial, and we wanted to know what's happened."

Dumbledore nodded. "Young Obi-Wan was given three counts of justifiable homicide in self-defense, and one count of non-lethal self-defense. Our two Jedi have been under Auror surveillance since the trial, and have not been allowed to leave the castle premises."

"So..." Harry said, feeling a bit stupid but wanting clarification nonetheless, "are they under arrest or not?"

"No, they're not," Dumbledore explained, smiling. "They are, however, under strict probation. The Order has decided their tale be kept among us, at least for now."

"Good," Harry blurted, then checked himself, a bit embarrassed at showing such obvious disrespect towards the Ministry. But Dumbledore only smiled understandingly.

"Could we speak with them?" Hermione asked with interest. "The two Jedi, I mean."

"Ah." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I would grant you such permission, but I'm afraid it's no longer possible."

Harry frowned, not liking the sound of that. "Why not?" he asked warily.

"Because our Jedi have flown the coop," Dumbledore concluded merrily, then helped himself to a crumpet, dipping it in his tea and biting into the soggy mess with relish.

* * *

Harry snorted. "So much for submitting themselves to our law."

They sat gathered around the Gryffindors' common room fireplace late that night, speaking with Remus through the Floo. Hermione brought her knitting and clicked away with her needles as she listened with the attention she gave particularly juicy books; Ron, dressed only in pajama pants (and for whom was he going shirtless, Harry didn't need to guess) idly petted Crookshanks, curled up at his side; and Harry crouched nearest the fireplace, speaking into the crackling flames towards the head of his former professor.

"I'm told they tried to explain to Tonks their intentions, and only knocked her out when she refused to let them go to the Forest. They were clear, though, left a detailed message, and, er, promised to be back," Lupin explained delicately.

Ron made a face. "You really think they'll be back?"

"I do."

Surprised, Ron turned to Hermione. "You do?" Crookshanks let out a snoring growl at Ron's shifting.

"Yes," she said firmly. "No matter what else may or may not be true, nothing Obi-Wan ever said to us – well, except his name, of course – was a lie. If he wanted to throw us off the scent, he would simply have left gaps in his letter. But it sounds like he was quite clear, right, Professor?"

Lupin smiled. "I think they'll be back, too."

"Aren't you a little bit mad at them?" Ron asked Lupin, leaning forward on his elbows. "I mean, they did knock out your girlfriend and all."

"Am I pleased? No," Lupin responded honestly. "But do I understand where they're coming from? Yes. And they did her no lasting harm. Left her sleeping on a couch, so I've been told."

"Do we really want them back?" Harry asked doubtfully. "I mean, the guy said he's killed people before. Kind of a Dark thing to do, don't you think?"

"Killing someone doesn't necessarily make you Dark," Lupin said gently.

Harry frowned. "Yes it does. If you kill you're just as bad as the person trying to kill you."

Lupin looked at him with kind eyes. "It seems you've thought about this before, Harry."

Harry looked away. "Well – yeah. I have." He knew he sounded defensive, but he couldn't help it. Of course he'd thought about it before; he had a right to, didn't he, with Voldemort always breathing down his neck?

And he'd already decided he would never be a killer. Not even to Voldemort. "Killing is wrong," he repeated firmly. "No matter the reason."

Lupin smiled. He looked for a moment like he wanted to ruffle Harry's hair, though he couldn't. Instead his tone became quiet and he said, "I'm glad to hear you say that, Harry."

Hesitantly, Harry smiled, too.

Then Ron let loose a loud sneeze and both Harry and Lupin jumped. He'd almost forgotten Ron and Hermione were there.

"Sorry," Ron muttered, looking a bit red in the cheeks. Hermione, meanwhile, glanced back and forth between Harry and Lupin, biting her lip and looking quite emotional.

Harry cleared his throat. "Er. It's okay." And he looked around awkwardly for a moment, embarrassed to have been caught having what Hermione would call a 'moment.'

"As for Obi-Wan," Lupin continued musingly, as if they'd never stopped talking about the Jedi, "Perhaps it's because I'm a werewolf, but I am inclined to give most people second chances. The life of a Jedi does not sound kind. Obi-Wan may not have had much choice-"

"There's always a choice," Harry interrupted vehemently. "Not having much of a choice is still having a choice."

Lupin just made a sympathetic face and didn't answer.

"I do expect," Hermione put in gingerly, causing Harry to turn and look at her, "that having Mr. Jinn out cold would cause him considerable stress. People do things they normally wouldn't do when they're under strain..."

"He's twenty," Harry groused. "He doesn't need Jinn around to hold his hand. He can take care of himself."

Lupin laughed. "Twenty...you're all so young. And that's Mr. Jinn," he added. Then, musingly, "Or Master Jinn, I suppose."

"I'm not calling him Master." Harry's tone was flat. He looked to Ron for support; stalwartly, Ron nodded.

"Not _your _Master," Hermione chimed in, sounding much more composed now, "but Master, as in, Master of a subject. Like Professor Snape is a Potions Master-" seeing Harry's face, she changed her wording quickly, "or Professor McGonagall is a Master of Transfigurations; technically, we could call her Master McGonagall."

Ron made a sour face. "Not going to happen."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not, Ron. In Jedi culture, however, 'Master' seems to be a much more common honorific. Remember Masters Pavrell and Kor Vollei?"

"Um, they were fake, Hermione."

"Will you let me finish?" she exclaimed, but she was smiling and so was Ron. "It may not be a bad idea to address him as Master Jinn, that's all I'm saying," she explained, "as a way to further cooperative relations between wizards and Jedi."

"A valid point," Lupin commented noncommittally. Harry threw his former professor a look.

"I get what you're saying," he reluctantly conceded, "and if Dumbledore insists upon it, I'll call him _Master _Jinn to his face. But I don't have to like it."

"Don't have to, mate," Ron said solidly. "I don't like it either."

"Professor," Hermione began, setting down her needles, facing Lupin and ignoring Harry and Ron in favor of her obvious curiosity, "what do you suppose defines the Jedi relationship of Master and Padawan? Obviously it's not actual slavery," she added firmly, a look out the corner of her eyes at Harry and Ron, "But Obi-Wan gives Master Jinn clear deference. Do you think it's a lifelong commitment, to be someone's Master, or will Obi-Wan grow out of it, as if it's a sort of apprenticeship? When do you suppose Master Jinn first took Obi-Wan as his charge – and who decided that, Obi-Wan or Master Jinn? Or someone else? And do you think-"

Lupin's hands showed in the fireplace when he held them up, chuckling. "What I think," he said, "is that you'll have to go to the source to get information like that."

"You think he'd answer?" Harry asked doubtfully. "I mean, if he were here?"

Lupin smiled enigmatically, tiredly rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "Only one way to find out."

* * *

Standing up gracefully from the side of an adolescent paint filly, his Master stretches out his back.

"You're getting to be how old now, Master?" Obi-Wan asks politely. He stamps his feet to shake off some snow; without the Force keeping him warm, he feels the cold much more deeply than before.

But his Master is warm, and so Obi-Wan sticks to his Master like a burr. Perhaps sensing his Padawan's need, like a living heater his Master sends a wave of warmth both physically and along their bond.

Obi-Wan accepts the heat and does his best not to shiver.

Addressing his comment, Qui-Gon shoots him a look, but he's clearly amused, as was Obi-Wan's intent. "Quiet, Padawan." The filly glances between them both, looking uncomprehending but ready to join in whatever was so funny. A little healthy flush has returned to her cheeks since his Master's ministrations, and the Force-induced warming of the area has only helped.

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan responds just as blandly.

His Master chuckles and kindly shoos the filly back to where her family waits on the other side of the clearing, mistrustful to the end. Obi-Wan feels the wave of good intent his Master gently sends their way as they turn to leave. Then his Master sobers. "We'll meet with the Herdleaders now. I know no more than you about how this disease is transmitted, and I don't believe they'll like hearing this. You have a rapport with two of them already; will you do the talking, Padawan?"

He half-bows. "Of course, Master."

The scent of pine is strong in the crisp, cold air as they make their way to the three centaur Herdleaders, who appear to be arguing once again, if the stiff backs and crossed arms are anything to go by. Upon their arrival, however, all three glance at the two Jedi and go silent.

"Well?" The elder asks demandingly, stamping a hoof. "What news have you, wizards?"

Obi-Wan steps beside his Master from his customary place back and to the left. He sees the younger pair, although with a surprised glance at Qui-Gon, transfer their attention from the senior to the junior. The older stallion does as well, much more grudgingly.

"Herdleaders Callidora and Tanos." He bows. "Elder Herdleader Magorian." He bows again, careful to give the same amount of reverence. "My Master and I haven't yet identified a cure for the disease," he states plainly, arms crossed gently across his torso with his hands resting in the folds of his sleeves. "My Master has healed the worst of the cases and aided many of the others. The Healers, especially, we've made sure are hale."

"Just your Master?" The mare looks at him with a hint of confusion.

"Yes." Without shame, Obi-Wan elaborates. "I have over-extended myself and can act, for the time being, only as my Master's assistant while I recover."

"You don't look very sick," the elder mutters angrily, stamping a hoof.

"Ah." The mare ignores her elder, expression clearing. "I wish you well in that regard, young wizard, for all our sakes." Beside her, her husband nods in agreement, looking much healthier himself since Obi-Wan's seen him last. It's a heartening sign.

"I wish to offer our condolences for the deaths we were unable to prevent while held at the castle," Obi-Wan continues softly, letting his genuine sorrow color his voice. "I am told you lobbied for our return to the Forest, and for that I am very grateful."

The elder snorts and looks to the side. The mare and younger stallion only nod, gravely.

"Thank you," the mare says quietly.

"What will you do now?" her husband asks, watching Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan bows, has a peripheral sense of his Master doing the same. "We must leave."

The elder lets out a disgusted snort. "Again you run," he states thinly, taking a step closer to Obi-Wan, threateningly. "I hate having you here, wizard, but I hate your inconsistency more. Either help the Herd or leave for good."

"It does not have to be so black and white as that," the mare protests, facing the elder. "I am sure they have a good reason for their actions." She glances pointedly at Obi-Wan.

"Of course," he steps into the cue gracefully. "As you know, many of those who were sick once already have become sick again. It is clear our solution can only help temporarily. If we leave, we hope to make contact with more of our order and ask for their thoughts, and perhaps receive additional aid from them as well. We will be simultaneously investigating the origins of the recent attack on the school, which we believe may have connections to the disease."

"And you've done as much as you can to prepare the Herd for your absence?" the younger male asks with a hint of tiredness. "Please understand, we cannot stand to lose more loved ones. Perhaps only one of you can go while the other stays?"

Truly regretfully, Obi-Wan shakes his head. "We act as a team, one that functions best when it is whole. Part of the reason I am unable to help now is because, without my Master's presence, I became overburdened. Were he to stay alone, the same would eventually happen to him. And as my Master, he has knowledge and access to knowledge that I do not; were I to journey northward alone, I should not be able to piece together potentially vital information."

"And you?" the younger stallion asks, turning towards his Master. "As the Master, have you nothing to say?"

Obi-Wan doesn't look, but he can feel his Master's gentle smile.

"My Padawan's voice is also my own."

* * *

After he was done teaching potions to the last lot of unappreciative, miserable little brats, Snape retired to his chambers and got ready for his second job. The candles placed around the darkened walls of his rooms lit with merely a glance and a thought; the sparse furnishings of his quarters came into view, threadbare and worn. He strode to his back room and his potions cabinet – modestly sized, but with seven times its length on the inside. One of the few pieces on which he spent hard-earned money.

Choosing a few potions, Snape downed them with practiced efficiency, able to blot out the atrocious taste with sheer force of will. Next he cast several strengthening and protecting spells upon himself, augmenting the potions. Reinforcing his Occlumency shields came next. Finally, he drank a bottle of Polyjuice potion, shrinking and turning into a nondescript, brown-haired Slytherin student who graduated three years prior, and who hadn't been anything remarkable then, either.

He looked through the one-way view of the portrait guarding his chambers. Waited for a cluster of students to pass; then climbed out the hole and locked it behind him. From there it was an easy walk out the front doors of the castle into the evening chill. With other students scattered on the grounds before curfew, Snape drew little attention.

When he passed the school gates, he apparated to the Dark Lord's meeting place.

Almost instantly three wands were at his throat. "Brute the betrayer," he hissed in annoyance, and the wands were removed, though kept at the ready.

"Severus?" one of the Death Eaters asked; Goyle, by the thick sound of his voice.

"Obviously," Snape snarled, taking out a small vial from inside his school cloak and drinking the counter-Polyjuice potion. When he regained his usual appearance, he ignored the guards and made his way inside the trap that was Malfoy Manor.

A half hour later, he met Lucius Malfoy in the antechamber to the Dark Lord.

"Severus," Malfoy greeted thinly. Snape gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

"Lucius."

"The Dark Lord is in quite the mood today," Malfoy remarked with satisfaction. "He'll play with you tonight." His narrowed eyes glimmered.

"Grand," Snape drawled irritably. Malfoy only smiled condescendingly, and Snape wanted to hurt him enough that that smile would never again turn his way.

But he didn't. Instead, he brushed past Malfoy, performed the complicated series of spells and passwords necessary to enter the Dark Lord's chambers, and pushed open the door without further invitation.

Annoyingly, Lucius strode in behind him.

Inside the finely accoutered room, the Dark Lord sat on his gold-flecked chair, the snake Nagini at his side. His dark red eyes watched Snape's progress without surprise. Snape kneeled several paces away from the Dark Lord, whose eyes flicked to Lucius and back.

"Leave, Lucius," he remarked conversationally.

"As you wish." The sound of booted heels clicking on ornate flooring; a door opening, then closing with a heavy _thump. _Eyes narrowed just a fraction in distaste for his colleague, Snape expertly cleared the expression from his face when the Dark Lord's attention returned to him.

"So, Severus."

"My Lord?" he replied smoothly.

"You may rise," Voldemort replied without interest, waving his long, pale fingers negligently. "Draw yourself a chair. We haven't had a chat in a long while."

Snape rose, flicking his wand. A plain black armchair appeared in the room, looking shabby and poor next to all the gilded decorations. The Dark Lord's lips curled in amusement. Snape sat anyway.

"Of what would you like to speak, my Lord?"

"Of an attack on Hogwarts." The Dark Lord pet Nagini's angular head when she rose from her place at his feet, hissing lowly at Snape, as she always did to anyone not Voldemort. Snape ignored her.

"The one in which multiple Gryffindors were injured? Certainly. I was there when the Jedi themselves told their story-"

"Jedi?" the Dark Lord interrupted. Snape couldn't make out the inflection in his voice.

"Yes, my Lord. Members of a spiritualistic order who claim to have crash-landed on Earth from space."

"And do you believe them?"

Snape paused. "...Yes."

Voldemort made no reply, only watched him unblinkingly, red eyes glowing faintly. Snape let his hands steeple in his lap. After sufficient silence, he continued without prompt, giving a general overview of events as he saw them, returning to the subject of the Jedi often and with as much detail as he could as he tried to feel out the direction of the Dark Lord's interest. When he finished, the Dark Lord wasn't looking at him. Snape bore the ensuing silence with impatience, though he was careful not to let it show on his face or in his thoughts.

"This Master Pavrell...describe him to me," Voldemort eventually murmured.

"Short, pale, and red-haired. Completely human, if we are to believe the Auror's autopsy. Mustached, as well."

While he spoke, Voldemort's air of unconcern steadily vanished. When Snape was finished, the Dark Lord's face twisted into blatant fury. "A worthless fool," he spat with disgust. "Incapable of following through on even the simplest of promises, even with a capable _machine_ at his disposal-"

Snape let the Dark Lord rant, being very careful not to move. Sometimes when Voldemort was like this, if he was still enough the Dark Lord would rage himself out before he remembered Snape was there, and he would escape feeling the punishment the Dark Lord truly wished to dole out to whatever poor fool disappointed him this time but, for whatever reason, couldn't be punished.

Tonight was not one such night.

* * *

The Obi-Wan of a year ago sits in a cell without light, sound, or smell, and it is slowly driving him mad. His only consolation is the small trickle of liquid, flowing soundlessly into the cell, that has a faint metal taste and the consistency of water.

He misses Qui-Gon.

Jedi crèchelings play little games of concentration to practice mindfulness, and this is how he's kept his sanity. He's measured his intakes of breath in simple meditation. He's turned bits of air into water and back. It's no longer enough; his concentration rasps away like skin from a raw wound, and he finds himself drifting with no remembrance of the passage of time.

He needs something. He can't make it through this if he doesn't have something, and normally that something would be his Master, but his Master is on the opposite pole of Yachta and Obi-Wan can't feel him but he does feel very cold. If he is to survive, he needs something.

He thinks he spends several days brainstorming on this problem, but he isn't sure. It could be weeks. His lotus has gone wilted and stiff, so that when he uncurls from meditation his back creaks like an antique door hinge. And then one day, running through archaic Jedi histories in an effort to focus his mind, he has the idea.

Jitong. The earliest Jedi were actually spiritual mediums who, among other things, practiced artful, elaborate ritual scarring called Jitong. Any significant point or portion of a Jedi's life was forever remembered by being burned or engraved into the skin in deliberate patterns and images; done in a symbolic sense as a means of spiritual healing, the scars were never made with the intent to injure. Rather, the oldest Jedi had bodies that told the stories of their lives. Though similar to tattooing, Jitong was eventually considered a more barbaric and unhealthy practice. It was banned.

And for some time that is as far as his thoughts take him. It doesn't last.

Without recalling precisely when or why, his thoughts return to Jitong, and it comes to him that...maybe Jitong is something he can do. It can give his mind a focus, his body sensory input, and him _proof _of this half-life he lives, hidden away in the earth and left to die. He can make it so he will never forget what he has had to endure; for if this imprisonment is not grimly significant, he doesn't know what is.

Jitong.

To soothe himself, he will start it again. He takes his hand over his arm and concentrates on destroying the tissue.

Months later, he's scarred but sane. And that's what matters, he tells himself. Jitong is keeping him alive; he needs it...

He misses Qui-Gon so much. Each day he forgets a little more of him, and it tears at him inside until the only thing he can do is take that destructive sense of loss and turn it outward on himself, adding with the precision of a draftsman little details here and there, reluctant to make any one area of scarring too obvious in case he ever gets out of this hell. The Jedi on Coruscant will think him in need of a Mind-Healer. Maybe he is; he doesn't know. He's just doing what he can to survive.

Then the chamber opens.

He cries out in pain at the return of light and sensation, closing his eyes firmly shut. The hands that hold him lift him to his feet, but his atrophied muscles barely support his weight, and instead he's allowed to rest on what he supposes must be someone's side. The warmth and softness of a robe wraps around his body.

Whoever is there talks to him with increased franticness, but Obi-Wan can't focus on the sound. It all jumbles together in his head indistinctly; he used to talk aloud to himself to remain familiar with human speech, but he has long since gone silent, and he simply forgets for the moment how to speak.

A hand over his closed eyes; he cries out again and jerks away, weakly. The hand returns, but instead of the pain he expects, Obi-Wan feels a cool, soothing, green light winding its way gently around the sensitive nerves. A second tendril of green reaches out to a place that hasn't felt a kind touch in what he will later learn is over ten months. And he knows then who it is that holds him so tenderly, as if he were made of butterfly wings instead of flesh and bone.

"Master."

* * *

They make good progress, taking various modes of transportation, gently passing through the minds of people they cannot pay but always leaving something behind; a repaired filament in the back room of a train; warmth for the joints of the older woman whose taxi they take; quietly healing the lingering cough of a man who lets them ride in the back of his pickup. At nightfall, they continue their progress on foot, neither having any money to rent a car and not about to trick an innocent into loaning one; the streets are all but empty. The countryside stretches out long and vast.

His Master pauses at dawn, to cast him a glance. Obi-Wan sees the question in it and nods. They continue.

At noon, however, Obi-Wan calls a halt. Without the Force to aid him, he's tiring much more quickly than usual. It's somewhat irritating – but he remembers his Master's advice and the reasons he's abstaining, and so releases his frustration as best as he can. Instead he sidles up cautiously to his Master's mental presence, creeping closer until he's sure he has permission through lack of protest; then he lets the Force Qui-Gon touches touch him too, gently, like falling petals upon his mind.

He looks up at his Master, sees him with his eyes closed. Waits, unsure. He can't quite make out the expression on his Master's face, but he can see the fine tremble work its way up his Master's back.

Then his Master's watching him with the kind, careful blue eyes Obi-Wan's been seeing more and more often, and though it hurts – because who else does he have to be careful around but his own Padawan, around whom he should feel most comfortable? - Obi-Wan only smiles faintly and makes a small gesture. His Master nods, and begins walking again, then jogging with Force-enhanced speed.

A step back and to the left, in the slipstream of his Master's Force-speed, Obi-Wan follows.

As evening falls his Master slows. Obi-Wan follows suit. They walk for a while, quietly, the cold air turning their breath into miniature clouds, until the small town they're in yields a hotel.

His Master books a room while Obi-Wan gently calms the innkeep's mind and walks into the hotel's kitchen, also calming the minds of the chef and assistant. Appearing as nothing more than a handyman, he fixes the uneven heating of the stove and the microwave that won't rotate, then quiets the clicking noise in the commercial refrigerator. Next, he goes upstairs and into the innkeep's study, debugging his computer with the ease of sorting younglings' building blocks.

When he's done all these things, he follows the link in his Master's mind to their room. Stands outside it for just a moment; then palms open the door. Inside, it's smallish and decorated in green and off-white, with soft floral patterns on the curtains and a pair of compact four-poster beds. There's one window, which overlooks several buildings, streetlights, and a few bare trees. It's dark outside, and the snow reflects as a muted silver glow.

His Master stands by the window, looking into the night, his face lit by subtle moonlight that softens the contours of his face. He's shucked his robe, outer tunic, and boots, and the sight is so disarmingly familiar and so desperately wanted as of late that Obi-Wan has to take a moment to compose himself. His Master cannot see it but Obi-Wan knows he feels it when he releases a wave of quiet sadness and deep relief to the Force. For a long time, Obi-Wan wasn't sure he'd ever get to see this sight again.

Along their bond, his Master sends reassurance, soft as falling snow.

He lets out a quiet breath, settles onto the end of the bed closest to the door and takes off his boots, setting them to the side, then stands again and discards his robe, flicking it neatly to smooth it before he folds it with practiced ease. His eyes search out his Master's robe, hung lopsidedly on one of the bed posts. He frowns, goes to it, picks it up from the post, flicks it out and folds it, too, placing it next to his own on the small white table. He wants to give his Master's robe a fond caress – but doesn't.

When Obi-Wan removes his outer tunic, he hears Qui-Gon suck in a breath. He turns, holding his tunic in one hand, unaware of when his Master turned to watch him, and when he got so close.

"Master?"

"Your arms, Obi-Wan," he says with a fragile, soft sadness, reaching out to touch, gently, the arm closest to him. Immediately Obi-Wan tenses. His Master lets his fingertips trail down Obi-Wan's skin, making it tickle and a shiver rise in his spine. One fingertip traces the gentle hills and valleys of a scar. Obi-Wan trembles minutely; he shifts away so that his Master touches only air. Qui-Gon's hand withdraws, but it doesn't rest across his torso with his other arm in his usual pose of serenity. His arms hang at his sides, hands empty. Obi-Wan doesn't meet his Master's eyes.

"You've been doing Jitong again."

Obi-Wan's shoulders hunch inward. "...I had to, Master," he whispers. "I had to have something. You couldn't be there so I had to do what I could."

His Master sighs quietly, then chooses a place on the bed nearest him, feet flat on the floor, palms flat on his thighs, in a patch of moonlight. He nods to Obi-Wan, who reluctantly follows suit, settling rigidly into the single armchair in a corner of the room. "I know we haven't had much time to talk about Yachta, Padawan," his Master begins gently, "but know that I am always here for you." He feels his Master's eyes on him. They pull Obi-Wan's gaze until he swallows and meets them. The silver of his Master's hair seems extra prominent, shining like shooting stars through earthy brown.

Qui-Gon looks again at Obi-Wan's arms and his expression becomes pinched, and he reaches outward once more, then pauses. Obi-Wan tries hard not to recoil from that hand. Jitong is _his;_ it is private, even from his Master.

"May I see what you have chosen?" his Master asks. Obi-Wan's arms cross defensively over his stomach.

"I-" but he doesn't finish the sentence, only looks to the side, and the floor, a little unhappy and a little heartbroken. He can't stand to see that look on his Master's face, but to show his scars is to expose a part of his soul of which he's not particularly proud. In fact, Jitong brings him much secret shame. What will the other Jedi think when they finally make it back to Coruscant? It is one thing to be hurt in battle; another to hurt oneself to deal with the tortures of battle. To distort Jitong's original purpose. He's never known of any others who act as he does.

"You may see," he says instead and thrusts out his arms before he can lose his nerve. Qui-Gon takes one arm in both hands after gently pushing the other arm back to Obi-Wan's side. He takes a step closer, and again Obi-Wan wants to shiver but he thinks he manages to stave it off. His Master glances at him quickly, just a flicker of the eyes, then looks away. His hands hold Obi-Wan's arm very carefully.

Obi-Wan is acutely aware of all the places their skin touches.

Several moments is all Obi-Wan can handle. "I'm sorry, Master," he says, then pulls his arm back towards himself. Qui-Gon offers no resistance, but watches him retreat into the chair with faint worry etching lines around his eyes.

Obi-Wan can't stand that, either, so he blurts, "And you, Master? What of your hair?"

His Master doesn't raise a hand to touch his silvered hair as Obi-Wan half expected him to, nor does he appear surprised. "I have caused my hair to go silver twice since Yachta," he says steadily, still watching Obi-Wan shrink into himself. "I understand the draw of self-destruction, Padawan. I have wanted to silver my hair much more often than I have. We are reluctant to give up coping methods precisely because they are effective." His voice is quiet and soft as a bird's wingbeat. "But effective is not always the same as healthy. I have confidence that time and healing will rid me of my method. I..." he hesitates, and Obi-Wan cringes and looks away, "...am concerned that you are not finding the same relief."

Obi-Wan doesn't have a response to that, so he stays quiet.

"Talk to me, Obi-Wan," his Master gently urges. "I am here for you."

But how can he talk to his Master about Jitong?

"I didn't mean to make it like this," he finally says, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible. "I was just going to use it like Jedi used to, to tell a story..." That is all he offers for a long while, but Qui-Gon doesn't move from his spot on the bed. He continues to watch his Padawan without impatience, and it is this devotion that eventually gets Obi-Wan to make his second admittance:

"I don't know what to do."

His Master just dips his chin once in a small nod. Another long stretch of silence.

"...I have to have something, Master," he whispers, "in case you ever leave me again." He looks at the floor.

"Obi-Wan." Said with compassion, so much that it hurts him to hear it. He doesn't look up. A rustle of robes and the creak of the bed, and his Master is kneeling at his side. He still doesn't look.

"Even when you thought I was gone," his Master says quietly, "I was always with you, Obi-Wan, and I always will be. Our connection may be dampened again by torture or distance, but no matter what, no one can take away that we are Padawan and Master. No one can take that from us."

He feels the beginning of tears in his eyes. He raises a hand to cover his face, quietly falling apart. Qui-Gon gently pulls it down from his eyes. Obi-Wan lets him.

"I will always be with you, Obi-Wan, just as you shall always be with me."

When Obi-Wan starts to sob silently, his Master keeps his hand warm in his, and doesn't leave his side.

* * *

A week passes in shades of white and bright golden dawns. When the boat they're on drops them off at the research station, they continue into the wilds of the snow with threats of imminent death from the resident scientists. Clustered together like a pair of bushy-tailed squirrels, his Master bears the brunt of the whistling wind and snow, the Force a cocoon of warmth emanating from him like a miniature arctic sun. Pressed in close behind, Obi-Wan keeps his head down and takes in that warmth like a reptile warming itself in the sunlight, letting echoes of the Force touch him from along the bond with his Master. Each contact brings him the heat and the Force he needs to stay alive.

For several days his Master follows his instincts while Obi-Wan follows his Master. Sometimes Qui-Gon halts and, panther-like, peers off into the distance with coiled energy and keenly focused intent. When he picks up the trail on which the Force leads them, they hunker down against the wind and become but one blue-violet shadow again.

Then one morning the long flat expanse of white is broken up by bits of ocean, lapping at the sides of the ice. As they progress the land on which they walk becomes thinner, the ice thicker, and the ocean more common. Soon they're leaping from floe to floe with Force-enhanced leaps, following the trail of runoff from a series of huge glaciers several hours away. The sun shines bright overhead, making everything a blinding white that tears at the eyes.

That evening, they reach the glaciers, and his Master stops by one no different than the rest. Obi-Wan catches his breath, the physical exertion with little to no aid from the Force making him clearer-headed than he can remember being for a long time. He can still feel the black creep of Dark in his veins, but in the crisp northern air it is harder to get sucked in by its insidious pull, clinging and alluring.

"This one," his Master says, reaching out to trace a gloved hand down the side of the glacier, fondly, like stroking a favorite plant. "This is the nursery. Can you feel the Living Force in it, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan concentrates. "...Yes, Master, but it's very faint."

His Master nods. "Were you accessing the Force right now, you would feel it without any doubt. No Jedi could pass this place by without feeling its pull, even the least Force-sensitive, so strong is the sense of hidden life." He strokes the ice once more, and Obi-Wan sees him close his eyes and his chest rise and fall, slowly, with a deep breath. When he opens his eyes, they're a deep, cobalt blue, and Obi-Wan can't look away.

"Let's go."

They wind through the ice like a pair of supple-spined snakes, getting ever more firmly embedded in the glacier, going into caves and crevices with nothing more than the Force as their guide. The farther they go the more fantastic the caves become, glittering and glimmering with the beginnings of reds, blues, greens, and purple crystals, mere specks upon the ice-white walls of the caves. There is no more wind, and the air around them has gained a little more warmth as their body heat warms the narrow spaces.

After an hour or so, they enter what can only be a crystal nursery.

"What do you think, Padawan?" His Master stands in the middle of the open space, back to Obi-Wan, surrounded on all sides by crystals growing out of the walls, ceiling, and floor, faceted like gemstones and beautifully irregular, bright like fireflies hibernating in the sheets of ice. His Master reaches out to touch a cluster of green crystals, hard as diamonds but giving the impression of a cluster of leaves, vibrant and alive. The green glow reflects off his Master's face as he turns first towards the crystals, expression full of respectful wonder, then looks to his Padawan.

Obi-Wan sucks in a breath. "Beautiful."

His Master smiles. "Yes."

Obi-Wan only nods and covers his true thoughts that much more carefully.

"May we meditate here, Master?" is all he asks, instead. "I feel this place will be...good, for me."

Qui-Gon looks pleasantly surprised. "Of course, Padawan. Your instincts guide you well."

His Master settles on the floor of ice in graceful lotus, choosing one of the few locations where the ice is smooth and clear of crystals. Obi-Wan picks his way over the crystals and seats himself next to a green and blue cluster. He reaches out to touch them, taking off his gloves. They feel _like his Master _alive.

* * *

But then the vision comes, and with a violent lurch Obi-Wan is thrown back into the present, the calmness of meditation torn aside by images of his Master's body, lit aflame in a pyre. There's a hand on his shoulder; someone's shaking him.

"...Wan. Obi-Wan. Come out of it, Padawan-"

"I am fine, Master," he breathes quietly, taking in long gulps of air to soothe his racing heart and hair-trigger nerves. The hand stays on his shoulder.

"The Unifying Force?"

Obi-Wan lets out another breath. "Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon gives him a long, deep look. Obi-Wan looks back, guilelessly, but wordlessly, too. This, he is not willing to share.

And his Master realizes this, and accepts it, and his gaze moves from his Padawan. "Come. We're almost there."

They pass through many more crystal caves, some clearly just at the start of their growth, others in full bloom. All are spectacular. Finally, they reach the end of one cave and see a smooth metal door, nearly invisible due to the camouflaging effect of the multiple reflected colors. His Master identifies a small control panel and keys in a code. The door hums open quietly, and they enter.

Inside, the room is silvery-blue and gray, shining and clean but empty. Onto the walls are stapled multiple rows of cables, which string around the chamber like a garland. There is a center control panel with two chairs, one of which is tipped over, and a set of basic repair tools on the counter. Two other doorways lead into hallways that twist out of sight.

"Padawan," his Master says.

"Yes, Master?"

His Master leans a bit against the metal counter behind him. His eyes are calm and unworried, and his hands are draped easily across his chest, folds of cloth spilling over like waterfalls.

Watching Obi-Wan, his Master opens his mouth; hesitates, uncharacteristically, then looks in the direction of his Padawan braid. His eyes soften a moment; Obi-Wan feels something flutter in his chest. Then his Master looks back at him, and smiles, and the sweet anticipatory feeling grows worse, because it is a feeling Obi-Wan shouldn't have, cannot accept, and certainly cannot act upon.

"You know what to do," is all his Master says, quietly. Obi-Wan bows.

"Yes, Master."

They separate, Qui-Gon heading down one of the smaller corridors, Obi-Wan remaining in the main chamber. He begins his search for a transmitter of any kind, finding one after only a few minutes. Sitting in the communications chair, he tries to activate the machine. Nothing. So he pulls open the paneling and looks at the tangled wires underneath, and knows the Force has guided him to be present at this moment. He has a deft hand with machinery; his Master does not.

Several hours later his Master returns, stretching his back with his hands on his hips. "What news, Padawan?"

Obi-Wan looks at his Master from his position on the floor, on his back, then extricates himself from beneath the paneling, sitting cross-legged on the cool metal floor, palms flat on his thighs. "I've had the transmitter running for at least an hour now," he says. "I've been trying to increase the signal range. Whether or not we'll get through to Coruscant, I cannot say."

Qui-Gon only nods, looking a bit distracted.

"Master?"

"...I feel something," his Master explains slowly, visibly refocusing upon Obi-Wan. "For all that we are surrounded by the Living Force, I can't help but believe something is very wrong here, Padawan."

Obi-Wan frowns. "Something amiss in the Living Force?"

"I believe so." Qui-Gon looks about himself once more, and Obi-Wan can feel the ghost-like touches of the Living Force as his Master probes the area again. When he only hums in thought a few moments later, Obi-Wan knows he's found nothing new.

"If it would be a help," Obi-Wan begins, "I can reconnect with the Unifying Force to see what it tells me."

His Master looks at him. "No, Obi-Wan. It is not so dire a feeling as that; I would have you healed first."

Obi-Wan's frown deepens. "Master, I am not injured." He tries not to sound too offended.

His Master only smiles with good humor, then his tone becomes calm and earnest once more. "I think you are."

Was he really going to do this? "Master," Obi-Wan explains again, patience firmly in place, "I am not injured. All damages I suffered during the droideka attack have been healed. Jitong...I have experienced some catharsis, recently." This is no lie; merely admitting his actions to his Master has lifted a suffocating weight from his chest. "And the state of my connection with the Force-"

"-is very much an open wound." His Master's eyes lock calmly onto Obi-Wan's own and he takes a few steps closer until he can crouch down next to his Padawan and speak on an even level. Obi-Wan continues to frown.

"I can feel it, Padawan – the Living Force draws me to you as only the hurt do. You've been healing on your own as we journeyed, but lately your progress has slowed, and within the past few days, all but halted. I am concerned for your psychic health. I am not a Healer, but my instincts tell me the Force bleeds inside you. You are conflicted, and until this fight is resolved the Dark will linger." Then, softly: "I cannot help you if I do not know what it is you fight."

Obi-Wan stares, then looks away mutely, shakes his head, and doesn't reply.

His Master doesn't sigh or demand his attention, simply rises, steps closer, and places a palm on the nape of Obi-Wan's neck. Obi-Wan is keenly aware of the touch, and goes very still, holding his breath. "Never forget that I am here for you, Obi-Wan, and I always will be," his Master says quietly. Then he removes his hand and takes a step back. For a moment, desperate irritation flares in Obi-Wan – how can his Master be there for him, when what troubles him is his Master? There is no way out of his confusion, and no other Jedi to advise him on the matter. Even were he able to reach someone on Coruscant, who could he trust with the kind of information he wished to impart? That he lov-

No. Thinking of it in those terms would only compound the problem. For the more he admits his feelings using _that _word, the greater the chance his Master will be taken away, perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever, and that frightens him with a kind of deep-rooted, trembling, black fear he's never felt before.

And if already he feels fear, from there his attachment can only bring about hate, suffering and, eventually, the Dark Side. He can think of nothing except detriments. The Council frowns upon love too much to ever let him stay with his Master, and maybe they'd be right.

He releases these frustrations, the air around him momentarily raising in temperature. He knows Qui-Gon feels both the release and its physical manifestation, but he doesn't comment, for which Obi-Wan is grateful.

All his Master says is, "Let me know when you have achieved sufficient range for Coruscant." And he walks out the door and Obi-Wan wants to call him back, but he _can't_. He can't.


	10. shades of revolution

-ten-  
_-shades of revolution-_

Mace Windu receives the urgent summons from the crecheling with surprise. "Continue," he tells his former Padawan; she nods, a dutiful Knight as always. To the crecheling he says, "Take this message to Master Yoda." The girl's eyes widen; she runs off quickly to do as told.

He strides out of the practice hall and into the main corridor, purposefully and authoritatively taking up the center of the halls. Younger Jedi duck to the side to get out of his way, despite his projection of calm.

When he reaches Communications, he bypasses the public chamber and goes directly to the private Council channel. It's already up and running; he can see, faintly, the outlines of two figures, the image flickering and jumping every so often, the signal made poor by distance.

Mace sits. "Qui-Gon?"

"Mace," comes the reply, garbled as the image. The second figure – he assumes it's Qui-Gon's Padawan, a quiet boy by the name of Kenobi – bows.

Mace shakes his head in disbelief. "Where are you?" Barring Kenobi's one vitally important and singularly disturbing missive, it's been over a year since Coruscant has heard anything from the oft-errant Jedi Master and his Padawan.

"...planet...Living Force...to the natives, Earth...Wild Space."

"Wild Space? What's the nearest charted planet?"

After several fuzzy transmissions, Kenobi leaves the frame; when he returns, the signal is clearer, and Mace can finally pinpoint the source.

"Icthilia?"

"Affirmative."

Mace shakes his head. "You're far out there, my friend."

No reply, except a laugh.

For the next hour Mace takes note of the story of Qui-Gon's ten-month imprisonment on the planet Yachta, subsequent escape with his Padawan, pursuit of the slaving ring, and attack of the Sith. Then the shorter figure steps forward, and Kenobi tells his piece. Mace has him go over details of the Sith multiple times before he's satisfied with his notes on the subject of their long-lost enemy.

When Kenobi finishes, Mace is left...unsettled. "Leave, Padawan."

A glance at his Master, who nods; Kenobi's image walks out of sight.

"Yes, Mace?"

"Something is amiss with your Padawan, Qui-Gon," Mace asserts bluntly. He is surprised again when Qui-Gon only nods.

"I am aware."

"You're aware?" Mace repeats. He leans closer to the holo-emitter. "And since you're aware, what do you plan to do about it?"

"I have already put measures into place. Obi-Wan shall not use the Force until he is balanced again."

"Good..." But that's not quite it. "Qui-Gon, it's not only the traces of Dark I'm worried about. The Unifying Force tells me of great uncertainty concerning your Padawan's future."

"There is great uncertainty concerning anyone's future, Mace."

Mace presses his lips together. "You divert. You must feel it as well."

"And if I did, what would you have me do? The Force will guide him to the future of his choosing." Still said with the calmness that let him routinely face down the ire of his peers.

Mace sighs. "And if the future of his choosing becomes a threat to the Order?"

"It will not." Firmly.

"Qui-Gon-"

"I respect your intuition, Mace, but my feelings tell me my place right now is with Obi-Wan. Wherever this takes us is of no consequence. In his moments of uncertainty, I will be there, and that is what is essential." He pauses significantly. "I take our connection and my place in it very seriously; never doubt that."

Again Mace sighs. "As long as you're cognizant of the dangers."

"Better than most, my friend." Said softly. A pause, then; Mace thinks back to Qui-Gon's first Padawan and the unmitigated tragedy of the once-promising boy's Turning. And its effect on the Master; many were certain he would never take another Padawan, and for years, continued refusals testified to the speculation.

What about Kenobi changed his mind?

Mace clears his throat. "We'll confer and get back to you, this time tomorrow."

Qui-Gon nods.

"And Qui-Gon."

"Mace?"

"I'm glad you're alive."

* * *

The next time Mace sets out for the Communications chamber, he's not alone; with a spryness belying his true age, Master Yoda leads the way into the room and seats himself, absently rubbing the gnarled edges of his cane once or twice before stilling. Mace follows suit, then turns his attention to the holo-emitter, already up and running, its bluish image showing Qui-Gon and Kenobi, both seated as well – although it looks like they've chosen to move the emitter from its place the day previous, for both sit on the ground, legs crossed, and in Qui-Gon's case, Mace suspects, feet bare.

It was something that the oft-contrary Qui-Gon might do when meeting with the Master of the Jedi Council, after all.

"You may cease glaring at me, Mace," comes the humor-laden voice of his friend; Mace expertly and cleanly clears his mind, and his expression consequently eases.

Still sounding amused, Qui-Gon continues. "What news from the healers?"

"From what you've described, your disease is telepathic in nature-" Mace begins, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped between.

At his proclamation, Kenobi shifts. Mace pauses. Despite Qui-Gon's assurances, thoughts of the Padawan still bring about great unease, and he's resolved to watch the boy, if for no other reason than to protect his Master from further damage at the hands of errant Padawans.

"They speculate that the Draethos," he continues after a moment, "having had telepathic powers far beyond that of its race's normal prowess, was the originator of the disease. Close proximity combined with thoughts of the intended target – the intended _unshielded _target – result in transmittance of the disease. This is why Kenobi's continued efforts were thwarted; the centaurs, being unshielded and in a close-knit herd, were vulnerable to the disease as soon as he cleared it from their systems."

"A resilient disease," Qui-Gon remarks. At his left, Kenobi merely watches, face calm and unworried. "Have they any idea how the Draethos was able to gain such skills?" he goes on. "A mind strong enough to wipe that of two Jedi Masters shouldn't occur naturally in this race."

"We suspect the Sith," Mace admits. He trades a glance with Yoda; the diminutive Master is serene in his acceptance of this fact, despite the pain any loss of life must cause one so Living Force-sensitive. "If the Draethos were telepathic _and _Force-sensitive, it might be possible, under a Sith's tutelage, to strengthen the mind through the Dark Side. We're not sure when the Sith would have had access to the Draethos," Mace adds, "but perhaps the better question would be when _wouldn't _it have had access to the Draethos. Since we were unaware of the Sith until Padawan Kenobi's message, it would have had no problem wandering the galaxy as it pleased."

Qui-Gon raises an eyebrow. "And now?"

"Now," Mace asserts grimly, "we are watching. For it, and its Master."

Qui-Gon nods. "So you, too, believe what we faced was the apprentice."

"Yes. The Master would not directly face such a danger. What I want to know," Mace leans forward, "is why the Sith would indicate interest in a Draethos to begin with. If it wanted the minds of the Jedi destroyed, why not just do it itself and move on?"

"Because it didn't want them destroyed," Kenobi speaks up unexpectedly, surprising Mace. Qui-Gon no doubt sensed the interruption coming, for he appears completely unruffled and accepting; approving, even.

Mace suppresses what is half a frown of disapproval and half a grimace of wry admiration.

"It wanted them controlled," Kenobi continues. "Either the Sith wanted the Jedi to be seen doing something, or only the Jedi _could_ do something. So far it seems those we've met had no idea of the Jedi presence in the north, but that does not mean the Draethos, controlling the Jedi bodies, didn't reveal our presence to others."

"And whatever the Sith needed the Jedi to do, it couldn't put in the time and effort to do it itself." Qui-Gon complements his Padawan's line of thinking naturally, like one river flowing seamlessly into another. Something about that disturbs Mace on a fine level; perhaps the implication of familiarity and mutual attachment. But Qui-Gon knows better than most the danger of attachment; he would not let himself get unnaturally close to his Padawan, and he would not foster such a tie in Kenobi. He wouldn't, but...

"And what connection does the Sith have to the crystal nursery?" Kenobi finishes, looking, now, at his Master, as if Mace and Yoda aren't even there. "There is no coincidence; there is the Force. The Sith chose this planet for a reason."

A sense of commendation in Qui-Gon's voice as he replies, "Precisely, Padawan. We simply have yet to discover the reason, but I have no doubt we will if we continue our exploration of the nursery."

Kenobi half-bows, a graceful gesture, even from the floor. "Yes, Master."

They talk for a while more, about the Sith, the disease and methods of treatment, the Draethos, and the Temple. Mace is halfway desirous of getting Qui-Gon alone again to discuss his Padawan and the unease he still feels around the boy, but the opportunity never presents itself and, soon enough, their transmission draws to a close.

Leaving Mace unsatisfied. He begins to rise when a murmured, "Hold," has him sitting back down again. Yoda has been silent and observant throughout most of the transmission. Now, he watches Mace with moss-green eyes, ears relaxed and face calm.

"Troubled, you are," the Master states. "Unsettle you, Kenobi does."

Mace dips his head in a bow. "Yes, Master Yoda."

A pause, then: "Spoken to me, the Unifying Force has. Watch him, I do." A hand, then, on the top of his bowed head, a gentle pat from an elder to a youngling. "Well, all will be."

Inexplicably, Mace feels reassured, as if he truly is a crecheling receiving comfort. He nods again. "Yes, Master Yoda."

The hand leaves his head; a tap of a cane, and he feels Yoda's massive Force-presence, vaster than the ocean, leave the room.

* * *

Now that his Master is with him, meditation comes to Obi-Wan as smoothly as the movement of a bow over strings, as calm and refined as the drop of a pebble into a pond and its subsequent ripples. Of course, though meditation is easy to slide into, this doesn't mean it's an entirely pleasant experience once he's lost within the stillness of his mind, for then he has to fend off wayward thoughts that prey upon his serenity like wolves.

Foremost among the predators: the increasingly distressing feelings he has for his Master. He doesn't lie to himself; now that Qui-Gon is awake, Obi-Wan's gentle affection has grown exponentially into something that can no longer be ignored. He named it, once, during the Draethos attack. He will not name it again with the term he suspects; such would make it more real, and less able to be uprooted and released to the Force. This is what he knows he must do, and this is what he tries to do, and yet...

Then the image comes, and it isn't the vision he's accustomed to receiving from the Unifying Force: it's simply that of a book, pages strewn loosely on a shelf. Grateful for the interruption, he lets his mind center upon the image; studies it; and stands, leaving his Master meditating calmly on the floor.

His footsteps pad gently along the corridor. He follows the image in his mind past the room he's taken as his chambers and to the doorway of his Master's. Along their bond, he asks permission; upon receiving it, along with a gentle query that he ignores for the moment, he nears the doors. They slide open with a soft _skksh. _The room is one of two that were once used by the Jedi tending the nursery; like himself, his Master has straightened away the evidence of struggle but kept his presence minimal. His outer robe lies with the sleeves dangling over the edge of the bed; nothing more.

Before he heeds the image in his mind, Obi-Wan runs a hand along his Master's robe; picks it up, flicks it once to let it hang straight, and folds the garment neatly, laying it at the foot of the bed.

Then he goes to the shelves and finds the book in his mind. When he opens it, the pages, their edges yellowed, smell of dust and old age. His eyes come to rest on very familiar words:

_There is no emotion, there is peace.  
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.  
There is no passion, there is serenity.  
There is no chaos, there is harmony.  
There is no death, there is the Force._

One of the first things any Jedi learns: the Code. He turns over the book and looks at the cover. Master Odan-Urr, the originator of the Code. The Master's various teachings are nothing he hasn't heard before in some form or another; many entries exhort the necessity of having no emotion. He knows this. He knows this, and he isn't sure why the Force has led him to this volume-

_Emotion, yet peace._

He snaps the volume closed.

Opens it again, and is unsurprised when the pages fall open to the same words. This time, he reads:

_Emotion, yet peace.  
Ignorance, yet knowledge.  
Passion, yet serenity.  
Chaos, yet harmony.  
Death, yet the Force._

And when he finishes reading, he sits down where he stands, legs crossed on his tall boots, and reads it again. The words remain the same. He can't quite comprehend past the shifting world-view in his head, but he knows that the differences in wording are life-changingly significant.

When he strides back into the main control room of the nursery, his Master immediately turns to him, though he remains seated.

"Padawan." A question without asking.

"Master," he returns evenly. He settles on the floor next to his Master, feeling the coolness of metal beneath him. Qui-Gon watches.

Obi-Wan lays the book on the ground between them. His Master doesn't look at it, merely continuing to watch his Padawan. Obi-Wan wastes no words; fine diplomacy is his Master's skill, and there is no need for it between them. There hasn't been for years-

-coming to his new chambers, feeling the excitement of finally having been chosen, and his new Master greeting him at the door, his long brown hair unbound, his feet comfortably bare; then watching his new Master's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles in welcome, then smiles wider as Obi-Wan goggles at his audacity to break from decorum so. Blurting as much to his new Master; hearing him laugh-

-so he simply begins, "Did you know the Code was once written differently?"

Qui-Gon allows some curiosity to show. "Yes, I did."

Frustration. "Why did you never tell me?" he demands, then takes a moment to breathe and regain his composure. His Master watches without judgment.

"...I had not thought it would interest you," he finally says. "You have always adhered to the Code as it is written now and with such devotion I feared you would see anything else as heresy."

"Then isn't that precisely why you should have shown it to me?"

His Master blinks in surprise. Smiles slowly, and with the beginnings of a humble pride the origins of which Obi-Wan doesn't know. "Very good, Padawan."

Obi-Wan shakes his head, brushing that distraction aside. "...Master. I ask you; what do you make of this old Code?" And he reads aloud what was once the Code, before Master Odan-Urr's meditations.

Qui-Gon listens with inquisitively tilted head and interested eyes. "That is how I live, Obi-Wan," he says simply when Obi-Wan finishes.

Obi-Wan lets out a breath. "Unfailingly unashamed," he murmurs, then says, louder, "I thought as much, Master. This," he taps the book with one finger, "sounds like you."

His Master only smiles.

"...I don't know what to make of it," Obi-Wan confesses, drumming his fingers on the floor, restlessly. "Master, why are we not taught the history of the Code?"

His Master appears unsurprised. "I suppose the majority of Jedi preferred Odan-Urr's interpretation, and over the years, the original form, through lack of interest, was relegated to the history books of the library instead of the classroom."

Obi-Wan's shaking his head before his Master even finishes. "It should not be so," he says. "Master, there is such _difference _between the two that I-" he shakes his head again, wordlessly.

"This troubles you," his Master prompts quietly.

"Of course it troubles me!" Obi-Wan looks into his Master's eyes with the heat of his words burning between them; takes a breath, releases some of that heat to the Force and hears it dissipate with a crackle. "It presents an entirely different view of the Code. 'There is no emotion, there is peace.' 'Emotion, yet peace.' The first suggests a polarization of two extremes, a black and white picture in which there is no gray, no in-between, just one or the other, with strong implications that peace is what we must strive to attain, and emotion leads to the Dark Side. The second," Obi-Wan draws in a calming breath, "suggests that peace and emotion can co-exist; that peace exists _despite _emotion, perhaps even _alongside_ emotion, and vice versa. It implies that the two are interconnected, that there is a balance to be found in the gray. Master, I-" he breaks off, closes his eyes, opens them. "I must meditate on this," he says, and rises abruptly. He sees his Master's acceptance in the way his eyes calm, the brief touch of his mind to Obi-Wan's; an invitation.

_Meditate here, with me._

This, Obi-Wan can't refuse; he settles on the ground next to Qui-Gon, reclaiming the spot he'd vacated only seconds ago. He watches his Master's lips quirk faintly in fond amusement; feels his heart squeeze and his breath catch.

But this time, when he feels a return fondness towards his Master, he doesn't immediately quell the feeling or release it to the Force: _emotion, yet peace. _Is it possible to feel emotion and be at peace? The idea feels completely foreign.

Yet, for the first time in his life, he lets his... _affection_ guide his meditation, like slipping into a warm sea and feeling the sand shift beneath his feet.

* * *

He feels the weight of the crystal caves around them like the gentle sound of a windchime being buffeted in a hurricane. It was not always like this; but the more they have stayed in residence, the more he suffocates under the general atmosphere of the Dark Side. Terrifying is the thought that some of that blackness might be emanating from him.

He sits underneath a giant crystal, delicate pale green with a mother-of-pearl shine, jutting out from the cave wall over his head, thick in diameter as his body. The crystals are overgrown in this part of the cave; his Master estimates at least two years since they've been properly tended, although those corridors they passed through on their way to the base have had more recent care. Perhaps this area of the caves was abandoned even before the two Jedi stationed here had their minds taken. While the small crystals were pleasantly warm, the giant crystals are hot as a sauna, and he has stripped off layers of cloaks like a snake shedding skin. Were he accessing the Force, he could cool himself...

He doesn't yet trust himself to draw upon the Force.

The more he abstains from its use, the more his head clears, and he realizes that his Master is entirely correct in not permitting him close contact to their source of guidance. Only distance has allowed his mind to let go of the supernatural and return to something more human, and in doing so some of the Darkness has seeped out of him like blood from a wound; painful, but necessary.

He enjoys being in the caves with his Master. Several days have passed in peaceful contemplation since their transmissions with Coruscant, neither seeking to fill the space with unneeded conversation, both working quietly to detect the source of the unease his Master felt days prior. Obi-Wan sleeps during the day and the dark of night, rising in the dawn and twilight to work beside his Master, who only sleeps at night. The return to his natural sleeping habits has brought him an equal measure of calm such as abstaining from the Force has.

"You're living naturally," his Master has said, to which Obi-Wan simply bows halfway, braid trailing over his shoulder and touching gently against his robes.

Now his Master enters the chamber, ducking to squeeze his long, limber height under a protruding crystal. As he walks, one hand continuously lingers on the crystals, softly touching.

"Padawan," his Master greets quietly.

"Master."

His Master nestles into a nook of the crystals as tenderly as any youngling, placing his palms flat on either side of himself with open delight. The sight of his Master's face so full of joy makes Obi-Wan's heart squeeze-

- and where once he would have stifled that urge ruthlessly, now he only lets himself feel the emotion, naturally.

_Emotion, yet peace._

The concept, once alien, is quickly pulling him in like a riptide, and he's willingly letting himself go. The old Code gives a kind of freedom lacking from the new Code. With his growing acceptance of the original Code comes an increased understanding of his Master's actions and words, past and present. It feels... intimate, to know his Master so.

"When we return to Coruscant," Obi-Wan begins quietly, "Will you join me in lobbying for the teaching of the original Code, Master?"

Fondness, along their bond, and a few crinkles at the corners of his Master's eyes as he smiles. "Yes." And for a long while, nothing more is said, and Obi-Wan is...happy.

* * *

More days pass, the time slipping by as softly as petals falling upon a pond. Hidden below in the caves, Obi-Wan's days pass in glimmers of reflected color, pinks and corals and teals, and the growing peace within him blossoms gently as the Darkness is leached from him like the sun fading shadow. His Master heats the crystals to water, and so they drink; his Master listens to the Living Force to find clusters of green life, and so they eat. His Master touches the Force, and vestiges of that touch echo along their bond like the soft press of piano keys, and with increasing abandon Obi-Wan feels himself pulled into all things his Master, without alarm and without worry.

The break in routine comes one day when Obi-Wan, meditating in a cluster of hand-sized crystals, feels his Master's approach with his rapidly developing seventh sense attuned to all things Qui-Gon. And so his eyes are open and his mind aware when his Master beckons to him with a hand.

"Come, Padawan."

Obi-Wan comes.

His Master leads him along a twisting path of crystals he hasn't yet explored, and the farther they walk, the more that claustrophobic press of the Dark Side increases.

"You have found the cause of the disturbance," he surmises quietly. His Master looks back at him, halfway, a flash of blue.

"Yes, Padawan."

They continue some way before his Master halts, at a strand of crystals clustered like pearls, rounded oddly and bulbous, unlike the smooth faceting of the crystals Obi-Wan has seen so far. They reflect a dark orange-red light off his Master's hand as he gestures.

"These crystals, Padawan, are contaminated with the Dark Side."

Obi-Wan reaches out a hand, just short of touching the crystals. Like a cluster of bees trapped in silk, "They're angry, Master."

"Yes, Padawan." His Master brushes a finger over the top of one crystal. "What remains to be seen is why." He looks at Obi-Wan, now, with a glint of orange contrasting the deep blue of his eyes. "I have felt you healing these past days, Padawan, of which I am glad. Touch the Unifying Force. See if you can discern what I cannot."

Faintly surprised, Obi-Wan recovers swiftly. "Yes, Master." Reaching for the Force is a bit like stretching a muscle he hasn't used in a while; it pulls, but it also makes him shiver with a sweet, good feeling, up and down his spine, that has him closing his eyes in order to better savor the sensation. He gathers the Force around and in himself; lets it permeate him like a sponge; soaks it up and revels in it, just a little, without pride and with reverence.

He feels his Master's fondness and soft amusement along their bond. Opening his eyes with an exhalation of deep relaxation, Obi-Wan turns to his Master.

"I have missed this, Master."

Qui-Gon reaches to him with a solid kind of touch, quite unlike the ghostly movements he gives the crystals. Places a hand on his shoulder, fingertips curling around the nape of his neck. "I know, Obi-Wan."

For a moment, Obi-Wan cannot take breath.

Then his Master releases his hold, stepping back and allowing his Padawan access to the tainted crystals. Now that he's immersed once more in the Force, Obi-Wan wonders how any Jedi could ever miss the thick, choking feel of the Dark Side, so strongly does it emanate from these crystals. Quietly, his Master's presence fades to a comforting background hum as Obi-Wan releases himself to the Unifying Force...

...and, hours later, swims back to the surface.

His Master is seated upon the ground in meditation while his Padawan staggers backward a step, breathing heavily, as if he's just faced a physical attack rather than a solely mental one. His Master rises quickly, steadying him with both hands on his shoulders and a soothing touch to his mind.

"The crystals, Master," he says, swallowing, "They're hungry. They pull." He is inarticulate with the cloying taste of the Dark, creeping over his touch to the Unifying Force like oil and water – never blending, only combatants.

"Release it, Obi-Wan," his Master urges. "Let it go. Remember the peace you have found these past days, and do not let the Dark take hold once more."

Obi-Wan swallows again, then closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, once, twice. He peels back the touch of Dark with some difficulty, and only knowing his Master waits in stalwart support and utmost faith of his abilities allows him to fully cleanse himself. When he opens his eyes, the crystals have turned several shades darker with his release; they're a deep blood-red, beautiful and unnatural.

His Master, still holding him, prompts him gently. "What have you found?"

"They have been poisoned over a long period of time," he says, shaking his head, but his eyes still riveted to the crimson. "Years, Master. The Unifying Force whispers of their intended future; these are to be sabre crystals, correct? That is the point of these nurseries?"

Qui-Gon nods, and waits.

"Should this become a Jedi's blade," Obi-Wan reaches a hand to the crystal but doesn't touch, "Such a Jedi would become Dark within months, Master."

His Master lets out a breath, but he doesn't look entirely surprised.

Obi-Wan continues. "These crystals are too obviously Dark to be allowed to grow by any true Jedi tending the nursery. That the cystals have grown this large and this poisoned attests to their age; I suspect the Jedi here have been controlled for years. I expect the crystals in the outer chambers, those farthest from the main nursery, are only slightly Dark, and more likely to pass by the notice of any not attuned to the Living Force. Even you, Master, only felt a vague unease until we investigated further, and your touch with the Living Force is fantastic."

The compliment comes out naturally; it's only true after all. Yet Qui-Gon looks humbly pleased all the same, and says a quiet, "Thank you, Padawan. I wish that you could open yourself to the Living Force as I do."

Unsure of what to say to that, Obi-Wan simply continues, "It would be easy to pass off the outer crystals as suitable lightsabre foci, at which point their continued influence over many years would turn the Jedi in question. Such may be the Sith's plan; to turn Jedi to the Dark Side through their own lightsabres, the one thing no Jedi is ever without."

His Master lets out a quiet breath. "No doubt you are right, Padawan." He goes silent a moment, looking at the blood-red crystals.

Then he turns back to Obi-Wan, asking, "Does the Unifying Force tell you how many years this has gone on?" His forehead creases in remembered pain, and Obi-Wan knows he thinks back to his previous Padawan and his former Master, both of whom had turned to the Dark Side and been subsequently killed by the Jedi.

For his Master's sake, Obi-Wan feels pain as well. The Jedi Master Dooku was long dead, but finding the long-lost, Turned Xanatos had happened during his Padawanship. Never will Obi-Wan forget the chilling sight of a Jedi Master forced to cut down his own Padawan.

Those were dark days, for them both.

"At this nursery, only several years, Master." Obi-Wan doesn't like to see Qui-Gon hurting, but his Master deserves an answer, no matter how painful. "But this may not be the only contaminated crystal nursery. There could be others, and until we know how many, there is no way of knowing if this particular planet's nursery was chosen or if all nurseries were contaminated indiscriminately."

Eyes on the crystals, his Master says, "All that would have to be done at each nursery is to take over the minds of the Jedi who tend them, as was done here. Then the crystals could be poisoned, and no one would be the wiser."

"Except, perhaps, someone highly attuned in the Living Force," Obi-Wan reminds. "I suspect neither you nor Master Yoda could be duped by such a crystal."

"No," his Master responds quietly, "But we are singularly talented, he and I." There is no boastful quality to his words, only the truth.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes and looks away, pained. The thought of Jedi slowly being poisoned to the Dark Side by their own sabres sickens him in a nearly physical way.

Then his Master speaks, and Obi-Wan opens his eyes. "We'll notify Coruscant at once. Our purpose here is finished, and our place is with the Herd once more. I begin to worry for their continued health." He looks at Obi-Wan and smiles. "Before we depart, I would like you to look over a few untainted crystals I've chosen as foci from the outer chambers. Between the two of us, I believe we can detect any traces of the Dark, should they exist. It's time I had a lightsabre again."

Obi-Wan bows halfway. "Yes, Master. I'll collect the supplies for sabre construction from the nursery before we leave."

His Master only smiles, turning until Obi-Wan says, "There is something else, Master."

Qui-Gon pauses and looks to his Padawan, a question in his expression.

Obi-Wan's face is solemn as he gestures to the bulbous, blood-red crystals. "These crystals have known the direct touch of a Sith."

* * *

She left work tired, back chronically aching and feet sore, and thinking of nothing more than relaxing into sleep. The night was dark and snowy, sometimes misty and sometimes more. Red and yellow lights lit the road as cars came and went. She waited on the bench (covered, luckily) for her bus, nestled into the hood of her coat with hands tucked into her pockets. The air smelled moist and earthy, and when everything was quiet and still, she could hear the wet snow tap on the roof with a sound like sifting grains of rice.

When the bus came, it was empty save for a pair of men, one young and one older, seated in the middle section. Not particularly inclined to be conversational with strangers, she chose a seat on the opposite side of the bus, a few seats closer to the back. The bus started on its lumbering way, burbling and sputtering along. Taking out a crossword book from her purse, she flipped to a partially done puzzle, bit the cap off a pen and held it between her teeth, absently fiddling with it while she tried to think of a three-letter word ending in 'y' and meaning 'enchanted.'

When she couldn't come up with anything, she moved on to an easier one: a cry to bullfighters.

"Olé," she muttered, pen scrawling.

A few minutes into the crossword and only that three-letter word was left, and she couldn't figure out the surrounding words (with equally consternating clues) until she got it. And she wouldn't go on to another crossword. No, she had the type of personality where she had to finish one puzzle completely before she started another.

...Nothing. So she sighed, looked up and settled her gaze, eventually, on the only other point of interest (the bus driver, being the same quaint old lady for months, no longer counted as fascinating), the two other passengers. The older one had long brown hair, of a length that truly she'd never before seen on a man. Part of it was pulled back into a small ponytail, resting lankly against his head. He looked out the window, and every so often he would turn and look to the younger one, and she'd catch a flash of white teeth and the corner of a blue eye as he spoke to his companion. Said companion would cant his head towards the older man, listening and responding in a much more subdued fashion – less teeth when he talked, suggesting fewer smiles.

...Really, what could possibly be a three-letter word for 'enchanted?'

The bus moved on and she soon lost interest as the pair failed to cause any sort of entertaining spectacle. Growing frustrated with the crossword, she set it aside and instead concentrated on grinding her knuckles into the muscle on either side of her spine, trying to massage away the terrible ache. As she did, she saw the younger man initiate conversation with the older man, receive a nod, then, surprisingly, stand.

And come back to her. Blinking a bit stupidly, she looked up at the young man, balanced and steady despite the incline of the hill they traversed and the bumpiness of the road. And asked with a bit of attitude, "Can I help you?"

"Thank you, but perhaps I can help you," the man responded without apparent vexation. Up close, he was actually younger than she'd first imagined, and the long, thin braid trailing over his shoulder only added to the impression of youthfulness. Or hippie-ness.

She raised an eyebrow. "How so?" She tried to sound skeptical, but there was a calming presence about the young man that made it hard to be mistrustful, much as she knew she should. She knew it, intellectually, and yet, in her gut, she felt like she could bring him home to her mother and he'd be a perfect gentleman.

"Will you let me help you?" was all he asked instead of answering.

Another reason to be careful. He didn't answer her directly...but that good, quiet, calm feeling still crept over her like moss on a stone.

So she felt her mouth open and heard her voice answer a hesitant, "I suppose..."

The young man nodded. His plain brown jacket crinkled as he reached out a hand and touched her on the shoulder.

Wary at physical contact being initiated by a stranger, she was about to protest the touch, no matter how kind-mannered and respectable the young man seemed, when he said, "It's okay," and then, suddenly, it was.

So she didn't mind while her skin by his hand seemed to warm very faintly. In fact, she couldn't be sure she wasn't romanticizing it and coming up with the feeling herself, but there was just something about the pair that had her in that mood. The kind of mood where she felt like humming and sighing and smiling all at once.

The longer she sat there, the man's hand on her shoulder and his gaze intent, the more relaxed she felt. The pain in her back and feet seemed to diminish, gradually, until she wasn't sure whether or not she'd been hurting in the first place. But that didn't make sense, it was a chronic pain, it always came back, and she felt her doubt start to grow...

"It won't come back," the young man said quietly. Her doubt drifted away.

Then the man was walking back to his seat, being greeted with a murmur from the older man, and she was left blinking and so, so calm, so wonderfully relaxed and pain-free.

"Fey."

She looked down at her hands, at the crossword with the cover curled back, then picked up her pen and filled in the word. But as she completed the puzzle, every so often she glanced at the back of the young man's head, drawn to him now with a curiosity that felt unfamiliar but safe. She had just started on a new crossword when her stop came, and she had to shake herself into wakefulness, putting back on her wool mittens and tucking her hood around her neck and close to her ears.

At the door, she turned back, once, and looked at the pair. She saw them with heads bent towards one another, leaning close as a pair of cranes painted on a Japanese folding screen. Wedding screens, she realized; those were wedding screens, and the cranes were always a mated pair...

The bus driver cleared her throat. She started, smiled at the bus driver, and stepped down the stairs and out into the snow. She stood there as the bus pulled away, watching it leave and feeling the cool air chill in her throat as she breathed. Still feeling a bit under a spell, she started to walk home, and thought, perhaps not so irrelevantly, of her crossword puzzle.

Fey, indeed.

* * *

The Valentine's Day dance loomed on the horizon like a dark omen.

Ron walked beside Harry, clutching his hair. "What if she says no?"

"She won't say no, Ron."

"Yes, but what if she does?"

Harry dodged the Bloody Baron's abrupt materialization through the sixth-story chandelier. "She won't."

They traipsed down the stairs during a break between afternoon classes. Students filled the hallways, chattering companionably or shouting over the heads of their peers to catch another's attention, and every so often a ghost or, scarier, a teacher would briefly grace the corridor, standing out like the first fall leaves among the masses of green. The light from the many windows shone inside the castle brightly, casting beams of light onto dust motes and into Harry's eyes. He squinted and tried not to run into anybody.

"She won't what?" Sounding a bit breathless, as if she'd hurried a great deal to catch up, Hermione appeared at Harry's side, looking from one to the other for explanation.

"Er," Ron stuttered. "Hermione. Hi." His face gradually turned a bright red.

Harry grinned and gave Ron a pat on the shoulder. "Go get her, mate," he whispered, then walked away jauntily, hearing Ron begin to speak, hesitantly, before he was out of earshot.

Thinking of his own Valentine's prospects left him as anxious as Ron – Ginny was Ron's sister, after all, and there was a certain man's code to follow – so Harry turned his mind to other things.

Namely, Jedi. They'd been gone over two weeks now, with no word either from the Jedi themselves or from the Order on the Jedi's whereabouts. Harry wasn't sure if the Order was even actively pursuing them, or simply waiting in good faith for their return. Either way, the lack of information irked him, as it usually did when he suspected things were being kept from him, though his annoyance was tempered somewhat, this time, by the fact that he had no solid way of proving anything was being withheld. He suspected the Order simply didn't have news, so there was nothing to tell.

Having a good hour before his afternoon Herbology class with the Ravenclaws, Harry decided to pay Hagrid a visit, both for the benign reason of seeing how his friend was doing, and for the less innocent motive of hunting for clues. Maybe get some flying in, too, after Herbology. Those goals in mind, he made his way to the Gryffindor common room, grabbed his broom, went down five flights of stairs, then up one (the last staircase had decided to dump him down an extra level, into the dungeon hallways) and out the large, stately front doors of the castle. The sun was even brighter reflecting off the snow; wincing, Harry cast an obscuring spell, a little cloud of fog appearing to hover in front of his eyes and act as sunglasses of a sort, filtering in the sunshine at more tolerable levels. The air was cool but not unbearable, and smelled fresh and clean.

He was halfway through the grounds when he saw them. They stood at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, talking with a pair of centaurs Harry didn't recognize. The unintentional camouflage of leafless trees that served as a background made it hard to discern exactly what was going on or who the two robed figures were. But Harry was willing to bet it was 'their' Jedi, back from wherever they'd gone, just as they said they'd be.

He slung his broomstick case around his shoulders, strolling much more casually in the direction of Hagrid's hut. The closer he got, the more sure Harry was that it was Obi-Wan and Jinn; he recognized the height and long hair of the latter, and the general stance of the former. He wished Hermione had taught him that magnification spell so he could see even more...

Then he was at Hagrid's hut, and he didn't have an excuse to go any farther. Sighing, he walked up the rough stepping stones set in front of Hagrid's house, knocking on the door while keeping an eye and ear on the Jedi as best as he could. Did Dumbledore know they were back?

Saying hi to Hagrid as his friend opened the door with a large grin on his face, Harry wasted no time squeezing the topic of the Jedi into the conversation. When Hagrid answered in the negative as to whether the Jedi had greeted him or the castle yet, it was no great task to convince his friend to pick up his frilly pink umbrella and cast a Patronus spell, giving the large, friendly looking St. Bernard their message and sending it galumphing out through the hut's stone walls.

In any case, Dumbledore was going to know now.

* * *

Severus Snape was surprised when he received the summons. Not so surprised as all that – he was a Potions Master, after all, and had an extensive reservoir of healing potions and the knowledge and expertise to use them – but still, surprised. He'd never been particularly good or bad at interspecies relations, so it wasn't because of his diplomacy that he was being invited along.

He met Albus and Poppy at the front entrance; said his requisite hellos, disliked as the commonplace trivialities were, and started outside without pause for his companions, hearing Poppy tut and Albus chuckle. Let them tut and chuckle; he didn't particularly care what they did.

He heard them chattering as they traversed the grounds, making their way to the Forest, and only paid them heed when, as they neared the edge of the trees, Albus cleared his throat and said, "Occlumency shields at the ready, if you please."

Snape stopped, irritated with himself when, despite his annoyance with the Headmaster, he nonetheless strengthened his shields. "What, pray tell, are we doing which requires the use of Occlumency?" he asked thinly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Albus turned to him with a merry smile. "You shall see, Severus," the old wizard nearly sang, sounding altogether too happy, leaving Snape to wonder, of course, why.

Snape looked to the Forest. Had the centaurs discovered something about their disease?

"I suppose it's no coincidence those of us with better than miserable shielding, such as that which the rest of the staff has," Snape concluded with a bit of snark in his tone, "were among the invited. Is it, Albus?"

"Astute as always." Albus smiled.

"Now, Severus, some of the other staff have perfectly good Occlumency shields," Poppy began.

Snape cut her off snidely. "Then why didn't the Headmaster include them in this little excursion?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore," a new voice interjected. "Potions Master Snape. Nurse Pomfrey. Thank you for coming."

At the edge of the Forest stood two centaurs, a man and a woman, both topless, as was the custom among the species. The mare had a striking piebald black and white coat and long, elegantly braided black hair. At her side the stallion, a dark bay with light mocha skin suggesting foreign descent, stepped forward, the woman keeping stride.

"It is our pleasure," Albus answered for all three, with which Snape had no quarrel. He found it altogether easier to let the Headmaster do the talking on occasions like these.

The centaurs stopped near the trio of wizards. "I am Herdleader Callidora," the woman began, giving a slight nod of introduction, "and this is my mate, Herdleader Tanos. We would like to thank you for offering your aid during our time of need. We hope, as ever, for continued harmonious relations between our two races."

Albus bowed respectfully. "As do we, I assure you. May I inquire as to the whearabouts of Herdleader Magorian?"

"The Elder chooses not to be present," she said in a slightly harder tone.

Albus was unruffled. He simply nodded and said, "I see. It must be hard for one such as he to accept outside aid, which makes the gesture that much more commendable. It is difficult to go against one's own instincts."

The mare nodded. "Yes."

The stallion added, "Shall we enter the Forest? If you are prepared?"

While Poppy and Albus wasted time no doubt fortifying their shielding, Snape did no such thing. With certainty, he knew he was prepared. Being at the Dark Lord's beck and call, he always was.

They entered the Forest, the centaurs leading the way through thin little trails and under boughs heavy with snow. The smell of pine was prominent, and, always having found mint tea a vile drink, Snape's mood began to sour.

As they walked, the centaurs explained the cause of the disease.

"...telepathic," the mare finished her sentence with something like triumph, and it started to make sense to Snape.

"Hence the shielding," he put in smoothly. She looked at him and nodded with what might almost be considered a smile, except that nobody ever smiled at Snape with goodwill – except the Headmaster, and his mannerisms and reasoning were always an enigma at best.

"And what is it you require from us?" Snape continued; though he certainly already knew, he preferred to be direct about these kinds of things, whereas Albus would dither around all day on pleasantries and waste valuable time.

"We have two wizards among us who are capable of destroying the virus at its roots," the stallion explained, looking back over his shoulder, all the while nimbly picking over downed branches and avoiding the deepest snowdrifts, simultaneously piquing Snape's interest with his proclamation. "However, the virus's effects are still felt by the afflicted unless the physical, as well as mental, symptoms are cleared. Think of the virus as having a brain as its locus and arms and legs as the physical symptoms manifest. Our wizards cut off the head, preventing regeneration, but the limbs remain unless they, too, are removed. If we ask the wizards to eliminate the less pressing physical symptoms as well as cutting out the heart of the disease, they tell us they will quickly become overtaxed and be of no use to anyone. Our plan is thus: we centaurs are incapable of using shielding such as you wizards have. As the virus is culled in each of the infected, those centaurs shall be moved to a different area of the Forest, where telepathic transmission cannot occur, or at the least has less chance of occurring."

"The disease is based on proximity as well as telepathic transmission?" Poppy clarified.

The man nodded. "This second location is where we lead you three. With your Occlumency shields, your minds will be protected from transmission. With your knowledge of healing spells and potions, if you would aid us in easing the physical symptoms of those who have had the virus's locus destroyed, we would be very grateful-"

"Your wizards will kill the head, and we'll remove the appendages," Snape added with a hint of dark thrill. Here, finally a place where his expertise could be put to use – no squalling children, no overdemanding Dark Lords, no unctuous Death Eaters. Albus gave him an amused look, which Snape pointedly ignored; finally being appreciated for his skills was no laughing matter, and he didn't care how transparent his readiness to aid was.

"Exactly," Herdleader Callidora agreed, again doing that peculiar moving of her lips at him that couldn't possibly be a friendly smile. Her husband, too.

Odd people, these centaurs. Couldn't they see what a loathsome, despicable creature he was?

They continued the rest of the walk in quiet conversation, of which Snape took no part, though the Headmaster practically spewed goodwill, and Poppy wasted no time following suit. As they walked, the sound of voices grew steadily louder, until they reached what had to be the main clearing for the Herd.

Centaurs were scattered among the trees like bits of confetti in the bleak winter landscape, roans and palominos and chestnuts and grays, and the occasional pinto or appaloosa. Most were in various states of pain; abruptly, one ranted out loud, his mind clearly sick with disease. But even as he watched, a somewhat familiar young man stepped from the side of a quiet old stallion and in three strides was at the male centaur's side, weaving between the man's flailing arms to stand on his toes, reach up to the man's head, and touch, gently, his forehead. Slowly, the man's thrashing calmed. The young man was murmuring things just outside Snape's hearing range, and the stallion's knees gradually folded beneath him until he sat, mumbling quietly, on the snowy ground. Kenobi, if Snape recalled the name correctly, followed him down, simple brown robes billowing around him, hand never leaving the stallion's forehead.

Poppy looked first at Kenobi, then at Albus. "I assume we're turning a blind eye towards his lack of compliance with Ministry probation?"

Albus smiled, eyes twinkling. "I think that would be for the best, don't you?"

As they passed, Kenobi did not look up and gave no indication he noticed anything beyond the ailing stallion before him.

"The Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi," a male voice said nearby, and Snape turned back to see Tanos watching him watch the wizard.

Snape sniffed. "We've briefly met. I suppose his Master is nearby?"

"The Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn?" Tanos didn't seem surprised or troubled. "I am unsure of his exact whereabouts, but doubtless he is near." He looked at Kenobi, something unreadable in his eyes. "Where there is one, you shall always find the other."

* * *

The corridor was dark and lit only by magically induced torches, and, as always, Eldie didn't like it and crept along the edges of the hallways with her ears down and shoulders hunched. She carried a bottle of dragon's blood in one hand and a Muggle newspaper in the other. Dragon's blood was terribly illegal, yes. But the snake-man wanted it, so she got it, even though she had to go along murky alleyways where eyes watched her and her spine shivered in constant fear. Why her Master wanted her to work with that awful man, she didn't know-

"No," she whispered, and paused for a moment to hit her head with a fist, jostling around the contents of the bottle as she did. "Not awful. A good man. Master would only have me serve good men-"

But in her heart, she knew that wasn't true.

"No!" More fiercely now, she banged her head against the wall. Feeling dizzy, she was nonetheless satisfied that she'd punished herself appropriately for her offense. Swerving a bit from side to side, she continued down the hall. She mustn't speak poorly of her Master's master.

Until, with a tiny shriek, she collided with someone's foot, of which she was shaken off, roughly, when she tottered and grasped the appendage in order to steady herself. Picking herself up off the floor, she shrank into herself upon seeing the face of her Master, sneering down at her with thin eyes, clearly irritated.

"Eldie is sorry, Master Malfoy, sir, Eldie should be watching where she is going-"

"I don't have time for this," her Master sighed, looking off into the distance, clearly ignoring her presence as much as he could. He pinched the bridge of his nose with aristocratic disdain.

She swallowed nervously, seeing her chance to make amends. "Eldie can be bringing Master something for his headache, sir-"

"No." Clipped and short, the single word made her wilt. "Punish yourself, then see if the Dark Lord requires any assistance with his current project. Do not leave until he commands it."

Even more anxiously, Eldie began pulling her ears in punishment even as she answered, "Y-Yes, Master..."

Without another word, her Master shoved her to the side with his foot, then walked away silently, leaving her alone in the corridor.

At the bad wizard's door, she found herself hesitating. It could be very bad in there...

But she served her Master's will, and she would not shrink from her duty. She performed the necessary spells to open the heavily guarded room, being ignored by the guards, which suited her fine. A good house-elf wasn't seen or heard any more than she had to be.

The bad wizard was talking to a few of her Master's friends. When she came in, his blood-red eyes snapped to her with snake-like alertness.

"House-elf." His tone held distaste. "Remain silent." He went back to talking with the others.

Stay silent. Eldie could do that, yes. With a heavy exhalation, she went to a corner of the room, snapped her fingers, and began dusting with the duster that materialized at her call. She heard her Master's master speak about that one boy they always spoke about. This 'Potter' must be a very bad wizard indeed to make her Master's master concerned. It seemed they had another plot in mind to kill him. There was always a plot to kill somebody.

Letting the conversation fade from her mind, she started to hum to herself, very faintly, in order to distract from the distressing talk. Vaguely she registered conversation about the coming summer, and Muggles, and a newspaper; none of it stuck in her mind for more than a moment, except when they started talking about her.

"...send the house-elf to collect a Muggle newspaper. We'll need it here as soon as possible if we are to modify it into a Portkey strong enough to exist at the boundary of the Potter brat's mother's protection, my Lord."

"And we will wait until the summer." It was impossible for her to tell the bad wizard's inflection.

But it made her Master's friends nervous. "...Yes, my Lord. The boy will be free from the protection of the school, which is most important. Without Dumbledore, he is nothing-"

"Of course he is nothing," the bad wizard spat. "The old fool is nothing as well. By sheer luck they have eluded me; no longer." He looked at the gathered wizards with something Eldie couldn't see from her vantage point, but whatever it was, it made the wizards shrink into themselves, though they obviously tried not to show it. The bad wizard's snake hissed at them, too.

"Y-Yes, my Lord. And as soon as he steps beyond the boundary of his summer home," one wizard hastened nervously, "he'll be beyond his birth protections. Then he'll be yours, and the Headmaster is sure to attempt a rescue. We'll be waiting and ready, my Lord, and there will be more than one death by your hand that night, my Lord."

The bad wizard was quiet, a deadly kind of quiet that made the three wizards shift and swallow, though they did not flee. Then, abruptly, the focus of that dark intent came to rest on her.

"House-elf." She jumped and tried not to shake while those murderous red eyes bore into her own. "You will collect a filthy Muggle newspaper and enchant it to show the seventh of August. I expect it delivered to Rodolphus within the hour."

"Y-yes, Master's master," she stuttered, and with a snap, she was gone.

* * *

He was angry...thick and black with impatience, his anger seeped through his bones like they were hollow, cloying and dark, overpowering even the satisfaction at a well-thought out plan, until he could barely think past the anger...

With a snarl, he flung his arm out, knocking aside a row of priceless Malfoy statuettes-

-knocking aside his glasses from his bedside table, Harry woke with a snarl.

Breathing fast, he felt the pain in his scar strike like a viper, and this time his cry was of pain. Quickly stifling the noise, Harry picked up his pillow and bit into a corner of it while his scar throbbed, and his blood boiled with anger not his own. Oh, Voldemort did not like to wait...

Not that the wizard was ever truly calm. The peripheral sense of Voldemort never felt anything but methodically calculating at best, and hellishly wrathful at worst. Most of the time Harry wasn't aware of Voldemort's connection to him, and it was only at times like these, where his mind was unprotected in sleep (or so he'd been told by Snape, not that he could trust the git) that he found himself drifting into the mind of his enemy.

His scar gave another throb, and he resigned himself to a sleepless night.


	11. the will

-eleven-  
_-the will-_

On a small mining ship making its way valiantly through Wild Space, Jedi Master Adi Gallia stands at a wide window and watches the approach of the planet on which Qui-Gon and his Padawan have been marooned. It took days for them to pinpoint its exact coordinates, since, true to what Mace told them via transmitter, the planet shows up on no scanner. Even from afar the planet seems green and lush, teeming with the Living Force that no doubt acts to hide its presence. Qui-Gon, she wryly thinks, must be thrilled.

His Padawan would be another matter. Adi had few interactions with the boy but remembered him to be peculiarly intense and focused, his close connection to the Unifying Force instilling in him a certain sibylline quality hidden beneath his layers of calm. Other than that he seemed to be a competent Jedi, humanoid and unremarkable in appearance, and one Adi hoped would bring about the healing Qui-Gon so truly needed after his previous Padawan's Turning to the Dark Side.

She hears the soft footfalls of her Padawan's approach. When the young woman reaches her, she takes a place at Adi's left and is silent. Together they watch the nearing of the planet Earth.

"Siri," Adi eventually addresses her Padawan without turning, "what do you know of Qui-Gon's Padawan?"

"Obi-Wan?" Siri frowns a little, remembering. "Quiet, intelligent. Driven. Very loyal to Master Jinn. One of the last to be made Padawan, and one of the first to go on active duty with his Master."

Adi nods. "And of his Master's character?"

"Quiet, intelligent. Compassionate. Spontaneous. A headache to the Council."

Again Adi nods; she can testify to that. "And what do you feel of the planet?"

Her Padawan raises a hand as if to touch it from afar. "It feels very alive, Master, and young."

"What else?"

"The Force whispers to me of great change for the Jedi Order," Siri finally admits reluctantly. "Concentrated on that planet. Do you feel it too, Master?"

"Yes."

Her Padawan is sharp; it's only a second before she connects Adi's lines of questioning and asks, "Do you think Obi-Wan and his Master are its source?"

Adi exhales calmly. "Yes."

* * *

She stands next to her mate, coat vivid black and white and glossy in the morning light, her companion's arm wound around her waist. Her mate catches and radiates the light like a sun, hair long and golden as her coat. Both young mares watch him, quiet in the wings as the Herdleaders thank his Master and Obi-Wan in front of a solemn gathering of centaurs and a scattering of Hogwarts teachers – including the Headmaster – before moving on to their funerary rites.

The atmosphere is somber, more so than is usual for the centaurs, as they recount each name lost to the telepathic disease. With patience and respect, Obi-Wan listens. His Master stands a half-step forward and to the right, hands clasped loosely and still. Both wear their hoods raised in a gesture of deferential mourning, their features hidden and their faces in shadow. The gesture hearkens back millennia to the spiritual roots of the Jedi, in which one duty of the Order was to guide departed spirits to the Force. In order to remain among the living during this journey, it was believed Jedi needed to remain anonymous; conversely, those souls bound for the Force were named. It is an ancient practice, and recalling his roots in such a way always instills in Obi-Wan a meditative quality. The air is quiet; the Force feels gentle in his mind.

The ceremony finishes, and some centaurs come to thank Obi-Wan and his Master personally, while others simply steal away into the Forest. The older stallion Herdleader is one such centaur; the younger pair, however, approach.

"The Forest will be your home, always," the mare intones; Obi-Wan bows, and knows his Master does the same.

"We are honored," Obi-Wan replies, and the centaurs nod, and leave; and though the Headmaster comes over and exchanges a few words with them, soon he and his Master are left to themselves as the rest of the Herd disperses.

His Master touches his shoulder. "Come, Padawan." He begins to walk away.

Obi-Wan doesn't follow. For a moment, he allows himself to watch the tall, lean form of his Master under the stippling of the trees' shade. Affection blooms, and is left unquenched.

His Master turns. "Padawan?"

"A moment," he says softly, his eyes no longer on his Master but on the young pair of lovers who watched him so during the ceremony; the mares are stationary while the rest of the Herd moves away with the quiet thunder of hundreds of hooves.

His Master glances at the pair, a flicker of his eyes. "I shall await you," he promises. The language is more formal than that which Qui-Gon usually chooses; perhaps he feels swept up in the ritual of tradition just as Obi-Wan does.

Obi-Wan's affection colors his mind in earthy greens and he can smell, for a moment, citrus.

His Master must sense his peace; he smiles, and touches him gently on the nape of his neck before turning and walking away. Despite the solid coloring of his robe, he blends into the forest like one born of it. Perhaps he is; Obi-Wan does not know his Master's birth planet.

Maybe he will ask, someday.

Without hurry, he returns his attention to the pair. They watch his approach until the palomino tugs on the arm of the darker one, who, with clear hesitation, follows her mate's lead and meets him halfway across the clearing.

Now, Obi-Wan pulls back his hood politely. "Henna," he greets, before transferring his attention to the other. "Milady," he says, and the mare smiles prettily at the term of address. Obi-Wan half-bows smoothly, before adding to both, "I offer you my greetings and those of my Master in his stead, and would give again my thanks for the transference of your language. It is an act of generosity without compare." He bows in thanks to the black and white mare, who, despite her obvious mistrust of wizards, felt deeply enough about Obi-Wan saving her family's lives that she offered his Master their language when the Jedi most needed it. She frowns faintly, while her mate simply smiles even more. Obi-Wan rises and looks both in the eye. "Is there some way I may assist you?" he asks with courtesy.

Instead of answering directly, the young black and white mare pushes a strand of hair from her eyes, raises her chin a bit, and lifts a front hoof to stamp, once, the snow. "This is my mate," she introduces guardedly, "Aravind."

Simply, Obi-Wan nods, and receives a graceful curtsey in return.

"We don't need your help, not anymore," the palomino mare says, still smiling, "thanks to the efforts of you and your Master. We'd actually like to help you, this time," she offers, and looks at Obi-Wan as if to gauge his reaction.

Obi-Wan is curious. "Oh?"

She seems satisfied with what she sees. "Yes," she says, and looks to her mate, a clear cue.

"I have seen you in the stars," the sister of Morgwen begins. She flicks her tail, and resentfully admits, "I did not seek to see this..." The young palomino pinches her arm cheerfully. "...but such is the way of the stars," she continues with a more even tone, "that they tell what they wish, when they wish.

"Let me first explain this: centaurs are not so close-minded as wizards."

Her mate smiles and leans into her. "Centaurs accept love in any form," the mare says, and tenderly touches one of the slender pine boughs braided into her flaxen hair, giving her mate loving eyes.

The young piebald mare returns her gaze, then glances at Obi-Wan, as if in an afterthought. "I may be selfish and mistrustful, but when I'm with Aravind, these traits fade away. The best choice I've ever made in my life is to love her." She pauses. "And it is because of Aravind's generosity of spirit that I find myself giving you the future I have seen for you in the stars." She takes a few paces towards Obi-Wan, legs long and nimble despite the snow. "You love the moon. I tell you this."

Then she leans forward and says, "And the moon loves you."

Obi-Wan's eyes widen; she watches him without judgment before turning and rejoining her mate, and the pair walk quietly away, but Obi-Wan isn't thinking of them any longer.

_The moon loves you._

He touches the Force, asking for a hint of warmth and walking off into the distance. The sun rises and falls while he meditates. When he returns to his Master's side, Qui-Gon smiles and welcomes him back, as the silver in his hair glints like the sun off the moon.

* * *

The air was cold and the snow all but melted, but at Hermione's insistence, both Harry and Ron wore scarves (Ron's, a rather sophisticated dark gray with white stripes, was knit by Hermione herself, and Harry suspected he heard her murmur the word 'dashing' as she happily handed it over to the red-faced Ron). Harry wasn't all that eager himself to get to their destination, so his pace began at a meander and slowed to a trudge the further they went across the grounds. Ron and Hermione kept his pace, and, probably knowing the reason for his reluctance, had the good grace not to prod him along, or even comment on it.

So he tried to think of other things, more pleasant things, as they walked. Such as the Valentine's Day dance that past weekend, and how beautiful Ginny had looked in her dress, and how she'd laughed at his dancing, and how, at the end of the night, they'd walked through the gardens outside the ballroom, stood under the stars, and kissed.

Harry couldn't help the smile that arose on his face.

So it was that he passed the next few minutes in pleasant daydreams about Ginny, and before he knew it, they were at Hagrid's hut, and Hermione was clearing her throat pointedly while Ron knocked on the door.

Harry blinked. "Er – what?"

"I was asking," Hermione gave him a look he couldn't decipher, "did Professor Dumbledore tell you how we were to find Master Jinn and Obi-Wan?"

"Um," Harry racked his brains, "Follow Hagrid's goatpath and make a left at the rock that looks like a crumple-horned snorkack?"

Ron turned and raised his eyebrows. "That's it?"

Harry shrugged. "Well, he said we'd find the centaurs that way, and I reckon they'll be with the centaurs, wouldn't you think?"

Hermione frowned a bit. "There's nothing that says they still are, but if Dumbledore seems to think so, that's good enough for me. Besides, we'll have Hagrid with us," she added, then the door swung open and she was set upon by a large, happily licking dog.

"Down, Fang!" Hagrid interceded, pulling Fang back by the collar. "Down!" When his dog was no longer suffocating Hermione in slobber and instead making the rounds of Harry and Ron, wagging his tail and barking until they petted him, Hagrid peered down at them, pulling on his coat and beaming. "You lot ready to go?"

Fang paved the way for them, frolicking ahead while Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid followed. They took the opportunity to catch up, chatting about the kinds of everyday things that, in Harry's opinion, had gotten pushed aside for too long. He missed talking with his first friend in the wizarding world.

When they reached the Forest, Hagrid and Fang took the lead. It was a sunny afternoon, so lighting was unnecessary and, Harry surmised, the Forest was at its safest. There was indeed a path they followed, and Hagrid didn't seem fazed in the slightest when Harry relayed Dumbledore's instructions. Birds chirped liberally, and every so often there was a faint rustle in the foliage that reminded Harry just which forest they were in, and that they weren't alone.

At the rock – Harry supposed it looked like a magical creature, vaguely, although Hagrid recognized the marker – they took their left turn, walking into the brush. It was difficult to push their way through the overgrowth, even with Hagrid plowing a pathway, and finally Ron asked, "Don't we have a machete or something, like in those Muggle movies?" He mimed slicing down the plants with much bravado; Hermione giggled.

"It's best not to upset the Forest," Hagrid advised wisely, and gave a nearby tree a friendly pat. The tree cooed, startling Harry.

"Blimey. It's really alive!" Ron regarded the tree, then, gingerly, reached forward and gave it a tentative pat as well. The tree cooed for Ron, too, and he grinned.

They didn't see the centaur herd so much as stumble into it, and immediately there were two centaurs in front of them, bows at the ready and blocking their view of the majority of the Herd. Harry tensed, ready to go for his wand if he needed to. The pair frowned at first, but upon seeing Hagrid, one wore a look of recognition, and lowered her bow. The other seemed to recognize him, too, but only lowered his bow when the woman gave him a pointed glare and subtle kick with her back hoof.

"Hello, friend Hagrid," she greeted amiably enough. "What brings you to our Herd?"

"Hello, Briseis, Arius," Hagrid replied with a smile, and the mare, at least, looked pleased at the personal address. "These three," he indicated Harry, Hermione, and Ron, "have a message for your two guests. Might you know where Obi-Wan and Master Jinn are?"

The woman – Briseis, Harry guessed – shook her head. "They've been staying with the Herd, but they frequently spend their time elsewhere. They always return eventually, however, and you are welcome to wait here, with us, until they do so."

Hagrid smiled. "We'll do just that, thanks."

Arius snorted and left in wordless disgust, while Briseis gave him a disapproving look and led the way through the Herd to a smaller clearing where a lean-to shelter had been constructed, giving enough room for two people to lie beneath with little room to spare.

Ron looked doubtful. "This is where they've been staying?"

Briseis nodded. "Often they forgo the shelter and simply sleep under the stars," she added with a hint of approval. Harry reckoned she would approve, what with the importance centaurs placed on the movements of the heavens.

They spent what Harry thought might have been an hour in that offshoot clearing, talking and trying to ignore the feeling of being watched by eyes both friendly and otherwise. Once, a pair of foals trotted along the path towards them, looking excited, before a mare – their mother, perhaps – caught up with them and ushered them away. Hagrid frowned gruffly and didn't say anything, but Harry could tell the blatant mistrust bothered him.

Finally, however, there was something of a minor commotion, and Harry turned where he sat, peering eagerly around the trees. What he saw surprised him. It was Jinn and Obi-Wan, of course, but with them was a thestral. Obi-Wan had his arm resting on its bony back, and it walked beside him without protest.

Hagrid brightened. "They found Rose! I wondered where she got off to." He stood and waved, catching the Jedi pair's attention with ease. Jinn gave a more controlled wave back, and though Obi-Wan didn't wave, he nodded slightly.

The Jedi picked their way through the Herd, and Harry noticed they got far fewer dirty looks than he and his friends did. Even with a thestral in their midst, it didn't seem to bother the centaurs.

"Oh!" Harry suddenly remembered, and turned to his friends with worry. "You guys, er, alright?"

Hermione had wide eyes, and Ron looked equally shocked. "I forgot we'd be able to see them now," Hermione murmured, sounding sad.

"They're not so bad as I heard," Ron said boldly, and shrugged, attempting to look unconcerned.

Harry could call him out on it, how his friend was really as unnerved as Harry had at first been, but that wasn't what a friend would do. A friend would let Ron's bluff slide, and so, Harry did.

"Yeh know, thestrals are really quite friendly," Hagrid offered genially. "They eat meat, but they're gentler than some herbivores, and they follow instructions really well."

"I've heard they can be quite intelligent," Hermione agreed, sounding like she was progressing from shock to fascination quite quickly.

By that point, Obi-Wan and Jinn were almost to them, and they crossed the last few feet to the clearing on silent feet.

"Hagrid, Hermione, Ron, Harry." Jinn smiled, and simultaneously, he and Obi-Wan bowed in greeting. Obi-Wan, Harry saw, bowed lower; Harry supposed it was another of those rank things that seemed to define so many of the intricacies of Jedi hierarchy. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Hello, Obi-Wan, Master Jinn," Hagrid replied, smiling. "These lot have got a message for you all." Hagrid gestured towards the trio. "I'm just a guide. Though I'm right glad you found Rose, I've been worried sick."

Obi-Wan approached, his arm on the thestral's neck and his hand on its thin mane.

"I suspected she was a stray member of your flock," he said, and gave a gentle tug on the thestral's mane to coax it forward. The animal walked agreeably at his side, and Harry saw Obi-Wan rubbing his hand back and forth over its bony neck, like one might pet a dog or cat.

The animal licked Hagrid on the face when it got close enough, and Hagrid stroked its nose with affection while Harry grimaced (and he rather thought he wasn't the only one). Hagrid gave especial attention to the base of the creature's bat-like wings, rubbing where the appendage attached and making the thestral lean against his hand, clearly enjoying the caress.

"You've a message for us?" Jinn prompted.

"Yes," Hermione said importantly, and glanced at Harry before she continued. "Professor Dumbledore wanted to know if you'd like a room in the castle to stay in, and if you would, we're here to show you to it. And Harry's got a message for Obi-Wan."

The last was said firmly, and Harry cringed a bit, not looking forward to this at all. It wasn't that he wasn't truly sorry – he _was – _but it was just such a difficult thing to do, to apologize...

"Of course," Jinn nodded. "Padawan, if you'd like to speak with Harry, I'll discuss our staying in the castle."

Obi-Wan bowed. "Yes, Master." He gestured towards Harry, then turned and walked some distance away, out of earshot of the rest of the group. Harry followed. Where once Obi-Wan's easy deference would have bothered him strongly, he now felt what could best be described as a mild lack of comprehension. He still didn't quite get it, but he was getting better at accepting it.

Then he was standing there, and Obi-Wan was standing there, waiting with his hands tucked in his sleeves and his brown robe draping familiarly to the ground, just like in Harry's dream before the alien attack...

"Hey," he said with sudden insight, "do you think maybe Voldemort had something to do with the attack on the castle?" He went on to explain what he'd seen, growing more excited as he talked. "It would make sense," he finished. "I mean, in my dream Voldemort was talking with someone wearing a robe just like yours. That's why I thought _you _were the one attacking that day."

Obi-Wan listened with interest. "It is certainly possible," he agreed. "Controlling the mind of one of the Jedi, the Draethos may indeed have met with Voldemort in such a guise. His motive for this is less clear, however."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I don't know what the – the Draethos, that's what it's called? - would have gained by working with Voldemort."

Obi-Wan shrugged. "There are any number of diabolical scenarios I could suggest, but it is just as likely the Draethos was bored and sought entertainment. They are an aggressive species, and have such a history of unprovoked violence for the sake of violence."

Harry made a face. "Lovely." Then he, too, shrugged, and said, "I suppose it doesn't matter so much anymore, does it, now that the Draethos is gone."

Obi-Wan's eyes were knowing. "But Voldemort is still alive."

Harry squirmed uncomfortably. "Yeah..." He didn't want to think about Voldemort if he didn't have to. It always gave rise to mixed apprehension about his future and anger at Voldemort himself.

So he changed the subject, quite obviously, but Obi-Wan didn't seem to mind. "Anyway," Harry began, "I also had something else I wanted to say..."

The Jedi nodded calmly, and waited. Harry took a deep breath.

"I, er, wanted to apologize," Harry continued, feeling quite awkward, especially since Obi-Wan looked as serene as ever, "for being...kind of a git." He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted a bit, not quite looking Obi-Wan in the eye. "I made a lot of assumptions about you that turned out wrong. I mean, it's not just the fact that they turned out wrong, I shouldn't have assumed in the first place, either." It got easier the more he spoke; he found himself apologizing freely. "And I doubted you, during that attack on the school with the Draethos and the machine; I thought you were behind it, and really, you were trying to save us. You were nice to us that whole time at the Burrow, too. And I challenged your explanations, and I let my own prejudices and emotions get in the way of my thinking. So I just want to say, I'm sorry, and I'm going to do my best to ask and think before I jump to conclusions, from now on."

Graciously, Obi-Wan bowed. "Your apology is accepted."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. That went better than expected. Obi-Wan didn't appear angry at all; looked as pleasant as ever, in fact, neither glorying in Harry's admittance of wrongdoing nor denying it.

And maybe it was the kindness in the Jedi's eyes that had Harry blurting more. "I'm just tired of things being kept from me, you know?" he explained. "People don't _tell _me things, and then what else am I supposed to do but try and figure it out on my own? And then if I mess up, I get yelled at. If they just _told _me things, I wouldn't have to go _looking_."

"And I wasn't forthcoming in any of my earlier explanations," Obi-Wan supplied, nodding. His expression spoke of understanding.

"Yes! I mean, er-" Harry stumbled through his words, "I'm not trying to pick a fight again, I'm just-"

"I understand, Harry."

Harry peered at the Jedi. "You do?"

Obi-Wan smiled that small smile. "I do." And when it came down to it, it was the same smile Ben had always given – did it really matter what the name was, when the person was still the same? Did it really matter that Obi-Wan called Jinn 'Master' and not some other term of address? Did it really matter that Obi-Wan had kept some things to himself – things that were mostly none of Harry's business in the first place?

No, Harry supposed it didn't. "Thank you, Obi-Wan." He smiled, too. Feeling a lot lighter, he returned with the Jedi to where their friends – and Obi-Wan's Master – waited.

* * *

Between classes, Hermione tucked away her arithmancy notes, returned the library books she'd borrowed, and decided to pay the Jedi a visit. It wasn't a spontaneous decision; now that Harry had made up with the pair, Hermione felt rather confident going to them with questions, as Master Jinn, especially, seemed receptive to curious inquiries. Bidding Madame Pince a courteous goodbye – it paid to be on the librarian's good side, something Ron and Harry could never truly appreciate – Hermione pushed open the old wooden doors to the library and set off for the first floor.

When she arrived, she found them at their doorway, Obi-Wan holding the door open for Master Jinn. Or at least, judging by the height differences, she assumed it was Obi-Wan; both had their hoods up, uncharacteristically. Certain that must mean something, she only added it to her list of questions to ask and approached them, brightening.

"Hello, Master Jinn," she greeted as they both turned in her direction. "Hi, Obi-Wan. Er," she blinked as a thought occurred to her, "is it okay if I address you that way? Would you prefer Padawan Kenobi-"

"Obi-Wan is fine." She could see his lips curve in a smile.

"Right, then. Obi-Wan." She smiled as well. "I was hoping I might have a word with both of you?" She trailed off inquisitively. Her slight nervousness about going to see them was all but gone, now; it was surprisingly easy to be in their presence, even without being able to fully see their faces.

Obi-Wan shook his head, and her heart sank. "I apologize, Hermione, but today we need to see to our sister."

Hermione's ears pricked. "Your sister?"

"The one you knew as Jedi Master Kor Vollei," Master Jinn unexpectedly supplied, and Hermione started a bit; he'd been so silent and still, she'd almost forgotten he was there. Recalling her time at the Burrow with Obi-Wan, she could comprehend now where the younger Jedi might have picked up such a quietude, if his Master always behaved so.

"Oh." Hermione remembered; they'd taken the unresponsive woman to St. Mungo's following the attack on the castle. "You mean-" she connected the dots in her head and came up with an assumption, "not your biological sister, but your sister in your Order?"

"Yes." Master Jinn nodded. "Now if you'll excuse us, we need to leave before visiting hours are over. But if you'd like to ask us a question before we go, you may," the Master amended graciously, perhaps sensing her disappointment, though she tried to mask it as best she could.

"Well, of course, if you're sure, that is," Hermione replied politely. When Master Jinn nodded again, she continued, "Then might you explain why you're wearing your hoods raised? It isn't too cold out, and I'd bet you have more sophisticated means of disguising yourselves, if you needed to."

It was Obi-Wan who answered. "We wear our hoods raised as a sign of respect," he replied solemnly, "and during certain rites."

It wasn't the most polite thing to do, to ask another question, but Hermione was curious. "Are you performing a rite today?"

Obi-Wan and Master Jinn's eyes met briefly; just a tilt of the head and a glance, but that seemed to be all they needed. If they hadn't had to leave, she would have loved to ask them more about the Padawan and Master relationship.

As it was, Obi-Wan responded, and something in his voice sent a portentous shiver up her spine.

"We expect to conduct a funeral."

* * *

"And so we shall," his Master murmurs, withdrawing his hand from the Jedi woman's temple with a sigh.

"Master?"

"There is nothing left of the woman this once was." Qui-Gon regards her sadly. She stares at the ceiling with blank eyes, living only under the glow of several life-sustaining spells.

Obi-Wan touches the woman's forehead briefly with a fingertip. "We shall perform the rites."

"Yes."

They begin gathering up the woman and her few effects; as he once did with his Master, Obi-Wan lifts her with the Force, before a sudden flash of remembrance almost has him dropping her. This is similar – _too _similar – and for a moment he has to calm his breathing as thoughts of carrying his own Master in such a way, to his own funeral, invade his mind.

His Master notices. "Obi-Wan?"

"A momentary distraction, Master," he explains, unwilling to lie but also reluctant to elaborate. The softly shining orbs that serve as lighting in the hospital cast faint blues and greens onto his Master's robes. Healing colors.

"Wait, now, what do you think you're doing-" A nurse accosts them when they enter the hallway, frowning severely and looking around with suspicion on her features. "No self check-outs of patients from that ward-"

"We've gotten the proper authorization and are free to leave," his Master intones, crossing his fingers in front of his torso. The woman frowns some more, and repeats, "Well, you do have the proper authorization, so you're free to leave."

His Master turns to Obi-Wan. "Come, Padawan."

They're halted many more times as they leave the building, and each time his Master gently suggests an alternative thought to the minds they encounter. Having left the institution once already under his own power, Obi-Wan leads the way. With only minor complications upon entering the main hall of the hospital, they soon find themselves in the small backyard garden of a nearby residential building, where they left the mounts the gamekeeper was kind enough to supply. The thestrals are unfazed by the weight of an extra rider; Obi-Wan secures his grip around the woman with both his arms and the Force.

Taking to the skies is truly a breathtaking experience; Obi-Wan has flown many a craft, but rarely does he ride upon the back of another living creature, and were the circumstances not so somber he would have enjoyed taking the animal through some of her paces. As it is, he merely lets the thestral choose her speed and altitude, and together with his Master they traverse the skies. The clouds provide sufficient cover in the late afternoon light, and the breeze, this high up, is chilly. Obi-Wan keeps a touch of the Force to warm him.

When they arrive at the castle, the gamekeeper seems surprised to see Obi-Wan's burden, though he takes the reins of the animals without protest, doling out a few affectionate pats to skeletal necks. His questions Qui-Gon deftly answers with the patience and tact of the diplomat he is, when he chooses to be.

Obi-Wan thinks of his Master defying the Council on some matter or another; the farthest thing from tact in his tone, though his poise never wavers. Disagreeing on matters is commonplace among Qui-Gon and his peers, and it is something Obi-Wan has long grown used to, though his young, newly chosen mind had, in the early days of their relationship, been scandalized and, if he is to be honest, a bit embarrassed at being chosen by a Master so unseemly in his defiance. He had been unable to see that, while the Council more often chose caution, Qui-Gon himself turned to compassion, and let this emotion guide his actions.

The thought of an emotion guiding _any _action, in a positive light, is one that Obi-Wan is only now understanding. _Emotion, yet peace_.

And he would not relinquish having been chosen as this man's Padawan for anything.

Not wishing to disturb either the castle's occupants or the castle itself – it is fairly sentient and harbors a direct connection to the Headmaster, after all – they simply leave the school grounds altogether, gathering Force-speed through their bodies and running until they reach true countryside. With the Living Force as his guide, his Master kindly warns away any living creatures while Obi-Wan gently lays the woman upon the ground. With his lightsabre he cuts down enough limbs from surrounding trees to create a suitable pyre. Once he's gathered all the wood, he returns to each of the trees he injured, and, with slight apprehension, calls upon the Living Force to soothe the wounds he created.

The Living Force feels warm and electric at once, like falling asleep in a bed of leaves while under a waterfall. Torrential, yet soft.

When he finishes, he returns to his Master's side, aiding him in removing the liquid from the pyre wood, drawing it out in little pulsing bubbles beneath their fingertips, letting it pour back into the earth to nourish another living thing. They complete the task; his Master lets out a breath, of preparation, perhaps, and turns to Obi-Wan.

"You've done very well, my Padawan," he praises quietly, and his eyes are on the trees Obi-Wan healed. "I am more glad than I can say that you have come to accept the Living Force in your life."

Obi-Wan bows, feeling warm under Qui-Gon's approval. "Thank you, Master. I am trying."

Then his Master sighs, and Obi-Wan knows what he now must do. He does not envy Qui-Gon the task.

They go to the Jedi woman, her eyes as unseeing as ever, her chest rising and falling slowly. With a hand to her forehead, Obi-Wan feels his Master gently envelop the woman in a cocoon of the Force. He will be with her in her moment of death. He whispers some words of comfort, but it is the Force itself that Obi-Wan knows offers the most relief, simply by its very nature.

His Master indicates a location on the woman's chest; Obi-Wan inclines his head. Then his Master nods, and, quickly, Obi-Wan ignites his lightsabre and stabs the woman right through the place his Master showed him, right where her heart resides.

She dies instantly and without pain. Obi-Wan can feel, peripherally, her spirit's return to the Force and wonders what it must be like for his Master, who guides the journey. He wonders if he will ever become as in tune with the Living Force to be able to aid another soul in the death of the corporeal body.

For just a moment, the Unifying Force whispers, _Yes. _Startled,Obi-Wan pushes the feeling away, unwilling to look too closely at where his future self might grow such a skill.

Then his Master is gathering up her body and laying it on the kindling, so Obi-Wan, too, rises, and takes his place on one side of the pyre while his Master arranges her as if in peaceful repose, closing her eyes. Obi-Wan begins chanting the funeral rites; Qui-Gon touches the kindling and with a call to the Force, induces friction and sets a spark to flame. He then rises and moves to the other side of the woman, so that he and Obi-Wan surround her in Jedi kinship. He joins in Obi-Wan's chant, seamlessly, and their voices are the only sounds, somber and calm, that resonate through the late evening.

"_Madhurah swehpna, go rahdomah swehpna.  
Madhurah swehpna, go rahdomah swehpna,  
morittioo, madhurah, swehpna..."_

From that single spark, the flames spread slowly, and a column of smoke rises into the sky. This is not the first time Obi-Wan has participated in such a tradition. As before, he feels humbled and peaceful while enacting the ritual, all earlier traces of fear from the Unifying Force's portents released gently to the Force itself. He ensures that he sends thoughts towards the male Jedi as well, whose body has long since been taken care of according to this planet's fashion, while Obi-Wan and his Master lay in recovery.

He and his Master chant the rites four times, twice for each soul they honor, before they become silent and still. The only movement comes from the flames themselves as they flicker and lick the kindling. With his Master, Obi-Wan stays until night has fallen and the flames consume the body within, until the fire sighs and extinguishes and the red lights fade.

* * *

"I feel strange tonight," Ron announced, apropos of nothing. He sat up from his oft-abandoned transfiguration notes and looked at first Hermione, then Harry, as if either could supply an answer.

Harry made a face and replied, "Congratulations?" But he, too, had begun to feel odd as the evening wore on. Wary of it being related to Voldemort, he simply hadn't brought it up.

Both boys looked to Hermione. Suddenly appearing cross, she said, "Well, I certainly don't know what to tell you." And she shifted a bit, biting her lip and tapping her notes with her pen.

Ron and Harry traded a surprised look at her unexpected irritation. Still, after a moment Ron daringly pressed, "But you feel it, too?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. The fire from the common room cast a red glow upon the back of her body, and the brightness irritated Harry's eyes a bit when he tried to look at her.

When she offered nothing else, however, Ron shrugged reluctantly, said, "Okay, I guess," and went back to his reading, though he'd glance up every once in a while, look around the room, stare at the fire, shiver, and return to his notes. Harry, too, couldn't keep his concentration that night, and eventually he and Ron retired, vowing without much enthusiasm to wake up earlier than usual in order to make up for the study time they missed.

Hermione waved them goodnight and kept at her own work. Neither boy noticed the sad knowing in her eyes.

* * *

Like diamonds caught aflame, the fire glitters and glimmers, billowing clouds of ash in great gray gusts. Fear tastes like soot in his mouth. His eyes catch on a scrap of a brown cloth eaten up by the flames, giving rise to terrible dread. He doesn't want to know what's there, _doesn't_, as if denial can change reality, but the Unifying Force whispers in his mind and it won't be ignored. He knows whose body is burning-

Waking is like swimming through quicksand; agonizingly slow and laden with terror. When he opens his eyes, the room is dark and quiet; he gags on the taste of burned flesh, turns to the side and spills out of the bed, scrambling to the doorway and yanking it open. Like a hawk, he zeroes in on his Master's presence in his mind – yes, yes, Qui-Gon is alive – but he has to make sure, so he takes the doorknob to his Master's room in his hand and throws it open, breathing erratically, gaze darting frantically to the place where Qui-Gon sleeps.

But his Master is awake.

Eyes wide and heart beating fast, Obi-Wan looks to his Master, who sits up in his bed, sheets pooled over his lap, back resting against the headboard and a wall torch lit and crackling quietly, casting the room in flickering shadows.

His Master watches him.

"How are you-" alive, Obi-Wan almost blurts, and awake, before he remembers the way he latched onto Qui-Gon's mind, desperate for assurance of his continued life. A slow, curling embarrassment suffuses him, and he dips his eyes and head in a bow, arms crossed over his torso while he tries to breathe calmly.

"I apologize, Master," he murmurs. "While you were in healing stasis, I became accustomed to ascertaining your continued well-being through touches to your mind. In my haste, my former habit betrayed me. Intrusion was not my intent." And so saying, he slowly, with much difficulty, relaxes his grip on Qui-Gon's mind, until he is separate from his Master once more, connected only by their bond and no more.

He still feels his Master's eyes on him, though he doesn't look up from his partial bow. Deference is a fitting front for his unseemly alarm.

"I will retire to my chambers." Now Obi-Wan does raise his gaze, and he finds Qui-Gon's eyes, so dark blue and lit with the red reflection of fire, meeting his own with open thoughtfulness. It is an unspoken question.

Obi-Wan remembers the flames as they licked around his Master's body, and cannot find it in himself to answer his Master's question. He shakes his head; bows once more, turns, and leaves the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

* * *

From the first time she saw them, she knew their appearance heralded great things.

The younger one – Obi-Wan, was his name, though he paraded around as Ben for a while – bore on his shoulders a deep responsibility and an esoteric mysticism unusual for someone his age, but strangely fitting all the same. She wondered where he got it from; the kind of solitary self-possession that would make him wander the snow-covered fields of her son's friends, looking up at the stars with a wistful longing she wasn't sure he knew he emanated. Those nights, he would walk at an old man's pace with a young man's agility until he reached a suitable locale – and what constituted such a place, she didn't know – settle onto the snow as if he weighed naught but a feather, tuck his hands into wide sleeves, tilt his head back and watch the night pass. Sometimes he even lay upon his back, pillowing his head on his hands and relaxing as easily as if he rested on sand. And she would watch him watching the sky, and she would wonder where he came from, that his eyes reflected the stars with such a curious familiarity.

For the longest time, the older one was simply known as 'Master.' A term for which she shared her son's loathing, given the situation surrounding her later life and death; though it was soon clear that no one who earned such a title under less than savory circumstances could garner the unselfish devotion given him by Obi-Wan. When he awoke, Master Jinn brought a clear light of joy to his apprentice's life; it was visible to anyone who knew where to look. And, being simply a spirit, she had ample time to look. It was there in the subtle glances he'd give his Master, where his eyes would soften and his expression would ease; it was there when they shared meals, and their hands would brush as they passed dishes across the table, reading each other's desires before they were spoken; it was there when they parted ways for the night, and Obi-Wan would lie with his eyes open, and a small smile would linger on his lips.

Only once did she follow the younger man to his room and catch that smile. After that, she quietly left him alone when he retired for the night; she was getting too personal in her curiosity, and it wasn't proper to use her current state of being to meddle in things that weren't her affair. Her son was and always would be her main concern, after all.

As a general rule, she kept herself hidden from them, lest they detect her with their unusually strong magic – or, as she and her son eventually learned, the 'Force,' as these two 'Jedi' called it. And she thought she'd done a good job of it, too, until the night when the Master approached her.

Her son was safely tucked in bed with his year-mates, and she hovered above a balcony outside the fifth floor of the castle. Since dying, stargazing had become a hobby of hers. She never slept, after all, though she could rest if she chose-

"Madam?"

She whirled; looking right at her, his hands raised in a gesture of calm and his expression kind, was the older Jedi. She looked behind herself; there was no one there he could have been addressing. But no one, not even the Headmaster, had been able to see her since her death. Doubtful that this was really happening, warily, she hazarded, "Yes?"

"I mean you no harm, my lady." Master Jinn smiled. "I'd simply like to speak to you, if you would allow it. My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. Might I know yours?"

"Lily Potter," she replied, still with caution, though truly, she felt no malice emanating from the man, and her senses for such things had become much better since dying.

Jinn bowed. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Madam Potter." His voice was smooth and his smile gentle.

She nodded. "And yours." She floated a bit closer to him, uncrossing her arms. She couldn't feel the wind, but she could see it blowing that mane of his to and fro, and guessed it might be cold, from the way he kept his hands tucked in his sleeves. Unable to help herself, she asked, "How can you see me?"

Jinn cocked his head to the side. "I'm unsure of the answer myself, though I have a guess. You seem to be made of the Living Force; I have a particular affinity for this aspect of the Force, and have honed my sensitivity to it over the years. I am used to finding it where others may not."

"I've heard you speak of the Force before-" she began, before realizing that revealed her poor manners of watching what wasn't any of her business.

Jinn only grinned. "I've noticed you before as well, so I suppose we're even."

She was surprised. "You've seen me already?"

Jinn smiled. "Once or twice. The blue glow tends to give you away."

She blinked. "Oh." When had that been? "Well then. As I was about to say, I've heard you speak of the Force but I'm not sure exactly what it is. Could you explain?

He did, talking about the all-encompassing Force and its dual aspects, Living and Unifying, and when he was through she was nodding. "It sounds like what I am, that's for certain. Magic as my son knows it never quite seemed to explain my presence."

"And what would you call yourself?" the Jedi asked curiously.

She shrugged a bit. "Hmm, a spirit, I suppose. I'm not visible like the castle ghosts, I'm not vengeful like a ghoul, and I'm not as solid as a poltergeist. Spirit's the best I've been able to come up with."

"And you're here to watch over your son?" Jinn asked with a knowing look.

She nodded. "Yes. He needs my help, as much as I'm able to give when I'm like this." She gazed at herself with sadness. "It may not shock you that I cannot give as much help as I'd like. Sometimes, he struggles so." It made her heart squeeze in pain to watch him hurt, and to be unable to do anything to assuage it.

"Harry has a difficult path ahead of him, but he has friends and family to see him through it."

Appreciative of the sentiment, she smiled a bit. "I'm glad you think so. I think so, too, but it doesn't stop me from worrying." She wasn't surprised he knew her son was Harry; the dots were easy enough to connect, given her last name and that he'd seen her before.

"It is easy to feel concern for those we love."

She glanced at him, then, and inexplicably, a familiar longing arose deep in her heart. "I do miss James terribly," she confessed wistfully.

"Your husband?" Jinn guessed.

"Yes," she confirmed. "He wasn't able to stay behind like me. And I won't be able to see him, not until I'm ready to leave Harry, and that won't be until Voldemort is gone, for good."

"It is easy to long for those we love."

She peered at him, then, closely. "You sound like you have some experience of your own in this regard, Master Jinn."

Jinn sighed, closing his eyes, and for a moment was silent. "The one I long for," he began quietly, not looking at her but looking out over the grounds, "is within my reach and yet, unreachable." Then he sighed again, and met her eyes, expression pleasant once more. "I do have a question for you, if you'd be kind enough to answer," he said, changing the subject.

She was curious. "If I can. Certain things, though, like what happens after you die – I can't talk about that," she warned.

Jinn nodded. "Then you are certainly able to refuse my question, should it cross those boundaries. What I'd like to know," he said, and looked again over the grounds, before returning his eyes to her, "is how, precisely, you were able to remain behind for your son."

She considered him a moment. "Are you asking this with the one you long for in mind?"

"Yes. If possible, when I die, I'd like to remain behind as a guide, just as you have. He hasn't told me anything explicitly, but-" he shook his head, "my Padawan's recent behavior is indicative of potential harm to myself, and he does tend to have an advantage when it comes to knowing these things."

"The Unifying Force?" she asked, remembering the man's explanation.

"Yes."

"That must be a difficult burden," she said solemnly.

Jinn smiled enigmatically. "It is the way of things. It is the Force."

She eyed him. "Right. Well, in any case, how I stayed behind is something I'm pretty sure I can answer. And if I can't, I'll know it soon enough, believe me."

Jinn simply nodded, expression attentive and interested.

"Simply put, it is my love for my son that has kept me as I am." Jinn's expression became at once inscrutable. Ignoring his odd reaction, she continued, "At the moment of my death, all my thoughts were on protecting Harry. All my heart was concentrated on his well-being. I was determined to do anything I could to keep him safe, even at the loss of my own life. I suppose, without meaning to, I began some sort of spell – not the kind of spell that you can write down in a book, you understand, but something more ancient and instinctual than that. Perhaps something more like your Force," she added. "While I was full of such love for my son, I was killed. I've thought about it before, and I believe my husband wasn't able to remain," she cautioned, "because his heart was split – love for me and Harry, both. It may be that you can't remain behind for more than one person. All I know is that, after James was killed, I didn't have time, yet, to spare him my heart, not when my baby boy was there, alone and defenseless, but for me. So when I died protecting Harry, my heart was on him and him only.

"There was a bit of a – a transition period, I suppose you could say, and there are some other things I _know _I can't tell you about, nor would you understand, corporeal as you are." She smiled. "But, in the end, my love for Harry was stronger than the will of my body to die, and so, a sort of compromise was reached. My body moved on to death, and I did not, and, well," she indicated herself, "here I am."

Jinn was quiet for a long few minutes. Content to wait, and glad that she hadn't been struck down in some spectacular fashion with lightning bolts and fire for revealing what allowed her to stay on Earth as a spirit, she observed the Jedi, though for the life of her – or unlife, she supposed – his expression and body language gave away nothing.

When he did speak, his voice was soft as a whisper. "You loved Harry enough to die for him," he said quietly, "but you also loved him enough to live for him."

She ran that sentence through her mind once more, then replied, simply, "Yes."

Jinn looked her straight in the eye, then, and gave a deep bow. "Thank you," he said, and she could tell the words came from deep within him, from a place of unfeigned gratitude.

Feeling solemn herself, she replied, "You're most welcome, Master Jinn. I hope you're able to protect this precious person of yours as I am my Harry."

Jinn's eyes were kind, but otherworldly in a way that sent her mind to wondering.

"So do I."


	12. heart of the sunrise

-twelve-  
-heart of the sunrise-

They become local curiosities; as they make no attempt to hide their presence (and as Obi-Wan's dramatic introduction during the droideka attack is far from forgotten), they soon attract the child wizards like moths to a flame. Qui-Gon especially; Obi-Wan's somewhat taciturn disposition does not invite the open inquiry that his Master's more expansive presence encourages.

He watches his Master with them, presence lithe and strong and gentle and controlled as a lion humoring cubs. They flock to him. In good spirits, he laughs and his face turns into something beautiful, something Obi-Wan wants -

Where once he would have struck down the thought aggressively, now he lets it come and go, naturally, though the temptation is heady to grab the feeling and wrap himself in it tightly. With his affection for his Master as his focus, his meditations of late leave him feeling warm and calm, but yearning, even with patchouli – known for its grounding qualities – as his aid.

Qui-Gon must feel his fluctuation of emotion; he glances over, and Obi-Wan shifts his gaze, demurely. He feels Qui-Gon watching him carefully. Then he looks away and tends to his flock.

Obi-Wan returns his gaze to his Master. He's playing a game of his own with Qui-Gon, one in which he hides the truth his Master seeks. Eventually he'll lose. But he is not eager for the inevitable, so he postpones it as best he can; by leaving conversations before they approach dangerous ground, by keeping his Master always busy with one curious witch or another, by mind's absence through meditation. He goes unreachable.

He suspects this is not proper Jedi behavior. But he has this accomplishment as counterweight: since discovering and meditating upon the old Code, the strangling compulsion of Jitong has muted, and he has not indulged in that vice. He has found some measure of peace, finally, and it drifts upon him from time to time like the drop of a snowflake in his mind.

"-always pictured aliens as little green men," the young, black-haired wizard says sheepishly, to which Qui-Gon laughs. A sound like wind through leaves; softly brushing through everyone there. Obi-Wan lets it fill him.

Along their bond, his Master sends the image of Yoda, and Obi-Wan unexpectedly laughs.

They turn to him, surprised. He supposes none have heard him laugh before; involuntarily, he wishes he were alone with his Master to share this moment, instead of as spectacle. His laugh is not entertainment.

His laugh silences. He stands; he can't be here any longer.

And though he tells himself he flees the child wizards and their invasive thirst, he suspects it is his Master he escapes, and the thought only makes his yearning worse but he can't find it in himself to change that fact. He leaves, sits outside atop the remnants of crusted snow with the help of the Force, feels his Master's acceptance of his choice to leave, and is inexplicably sad.

* * *

The youths they've met before – those they shared a house with – become frequent visitors, stopping by between classes to knock at their door with eager faces, asking question after question. Some his Master answers; others, Obi-Wan greets with silence, stepping in gracefully to waylay those inquiries he knows his Master would not want answered. And so, day by day, a new sort of rapport is formed, one based on mutual curiosity; for his Master is just as openly interested in the way the wizards use the Force, channeled through their wands despite their limited Force sensitivity.

"This planet, Obi-Wan," his Master says one afternoon, watching the girl levitate their coffee table with nothing more than a flick of her wand, "plays a large role in the wizards' application of the Force, I believe."

Obi-Wan watches the girl set the table down neatly, and turn, her two friends following suit, to him and his Master. "I agree, Master," he says, knowing all three are listening raptly.

"What do you mean?" the girl asks. "You're saying our magic is specific to this planet?"

"Precisely," his Master says with the satisfaction of a teacher to a student.

"So if we left the planet," the red-haired one questions, "we wouldn't be able to use magic?" There is a certain apprehension in his voice, carefully hidden, but one that leaks through in the anxious glances he shares with his year-mates.

Obi-Wan can recognize that fear. To have one's way of life stripped away and to be left defenseless – this, he thinks, and remembers his imprisonment on Yachta – this, he understands.

And because he sympathizes, he wishes he had a different answer. "Correct," he responds with as much compassion as he can muster, to soften the blow. As it is, all three look at him, startled, perhaps, at his bluntness. Obi-Wan feels the need to explain. "There are two aspects of the Force – the Living and the Unifying. This planet is inundated with the Living; it surrounds us, penetrates us. It binds this planet together. Witches and wizards are merely those who have varying levels of sensitivity to the Living, and, more rarely, Unifying Force. Through the cores of your wands, given from creatures who are further connected to the Force – unicorns, dragons, phoenixes – you are able to harmonize with it on a level passing your innate abilities. The Living Force of this planet is so boundless-" he closes his eyes momentarily, before opening them again. "-I cannot begin to describe how it feels to you. But it is this vastness of the Living Force that gives you the ability to perform magic that would not be possible off-world."

"So," the girl summarizes, her expression intent and lit up with interest, "our wands have bits of the Living Force in them, which is what makes up this planet, and what we call magic is actually an application of the Force that the Earth supplies. And if we left Earth, we wouldn't be able to connect with its Living Force anymore, so we'd – well, not _lose, _precisely, but you understand what I mean – we'd lose our magic."

Obi-Wan nods. "Yes. Although there may be other planets such as yours, inundated with the Living Force, on which you could execute spells. The Living Force is not unique to any one planet; it is universal. Your planet just possesses greater concentrations, perhaps because of a broader diversity of life." He feels a bit strange, explaining to these children as if he were the Master, not the Padawan, and spares a glance at Qui-Gon. Is this how he felt, teaching Obi-Wan year after year? This mix of patience and a desire to instill true comprehension?

Qui-Gon looks at him, and smiles; and through their bond, Obi-Wan senses his pride.

Without truly knowing its origin, he feels a flutter of warmth.

"However," he continues, turning back, "it will not be your magic that serves you well when your planet's people do make their first forays into space." He leans forward. "It will be your ingenuity, perseverance, and trust in each other that will allow you to flourish in a greater world."

He sees that sinking in; discerns his Master's quiet approbation of his response, both explanation and balm to soothe fears.

"You think we'll do alright," the dark-haired one states. "Because we're, well, creative?" His tone isn't doubtful, but he is unsure, and he looks from one Jedi to the other for clarification. It is a far cry from his previous accusatory behavior, and a testament to his character that he accepts his newfound humility without struggle.

"A spell to give one the form of an animal?" His Master inquires mildly, and three heads turn towards him. "A spell to regrow bones? A spell to make one insatiably ticklish?" He smiles. "I think these are very inventive things, indeed, and it assuredly requires hard work, imagination, and collaboration to actualize such spells. They are certainly uses of the Force I have never seen. Obi-Wan has never tickled me with the Force," he adds impishly, and Obi-Wan shoots Qui-Gon a look as the young wizards and witch giggle.

"Master," he chastises. His Master is unrepentant; there is a sparkle in his eye that speaks of mischief.

"Of course, should he try," Qui-Gon continues, ignoring entirely his Padawan's pointed gaze, "he would find himself on the receiving end of a retaliatory attack." His grin is roguish; Obi-Wan watches his eyes turn up at the corner in a smile – a smile _just for him –_ and feels his exasperation fade, as his insides give a squeeze and a tender longing takes hold of his heart.

"Master," he says again, but this time his tone is quiet, his affection carried easily through his voice and echoing gently across their bond.

His Master's eyes change for a moment, too – the mirth is still there, yes, but something deeper as well, something Obi-Wan catches for just a second in cobalt blue eyes before he looks away, back to their charges, who seem not to have caught on to the shift in atmosphere.

His Master then gently ushers the children away, and they leave without much protest, seemingly satisfied with the gift of information Obi-Wan provided.

"You have given them much to think about, Padawan," his Master says, and again, there is only approval in his voice.

Obi-Wan feels the urge to bow; follows that urge, and simply responds, "Yes, Master."

Qui-Gon touches his shoulder; he looks up, into his Master's blue eyes, and is frozen in time a moment as, once again, he is willingly pulled into the riptide of his affection for his Master.

Before it can overwhelm him, Obi-Wan breaks away. "Would you join me in meditation, Master?" he asks instead, feeling the need to temper his raw emotion, and gestures gracefully towards the small room that appeared at their bidding for just for such a practice, soft rugs in place on the floor and sticks of vetiver, frankincense, and patchouli gathered in small bundles next to an incense burner.

His Master replies by going into the room and kneeling by the incense. Instead of selecting the vetiver and frankincense as Obi-Wan expected, he places a stick of patchouli in the burner and lights it with a touch of his fingers to the end. A tiny flame appears, and Obi-Wan breathes in the familiar earthy scent. It is his personal choice of meditation aid.

His Master seats himself in graceful lotus. Like a mirror, Obi-Wan settles opposite him, following suit. And together, the room becomes quiet and still, and the Force hums between them like the green echoes of the planet.

* * *

"Harry!"

With a jolt, Harry tried not to choke on his juice as Hermione's enthusiastic whisper sounded right in his ear like a klaxon. Spluttering, he got a hold of his breath while Ron thumped him on the back and Hermione apologized sheepishly. A few other students at the Gryffindor breakfast table gave him concerned looks, until Seamus, a known lifeguard, stated with unworried authority, "He's coughing; that means he's breathing."

Harry regained himself, and soon after business returned to normal at the table, as the sight of Hermione appearing out of nowhere, waving a newspaper and nearly jigging with enthusiasm, was common enough. Without waiting, she pulled first Ron, then Harry up by the arm. "Come on, come on!"

"Hermione!" Ron protested. "My bacon!" As he was being led away, he snatched up a piece from his plate, staring at the rest mournfully while he, Harry, and Hermione walked towards the hallway doors, some of the other Gryffindors laughing at the spectacle. Harry was, truthfully, still a little hungry as well, but nearly choking was as close as he wanted to come to death that morning; no need to anger an excited Hermione.

"Oh, Ron, there'll be more tomorrow," Hermione consoled hastily, "but right now I've got something to show you two. Let's go-"

"Alright, alright," Ron agreed, but gave his food a last longing look as they passed through the doors of the Great Hall.  
Hermione took them to an empty classroom, flicking the door firmly shut behind them with her wand and peering closely into the corners of the room as if a hidden eavesdropper might suddenly spring forth. When none did, she nodded in a satisfied manner and spread the newspaper out on a desk, flipping through a couple pages before gesturing to a story in the bottom left corner with a flourish. Curious, Harry leaned down to read.

It didn't take Harry long to discover the cause of Hermione's outburst. "Another UFO was seen!"

Hermione nodded eagerly, pointing to the map. "It flew over a scientific station in the North Pole, then was seen some time later above the Cairngorms," she said, pointing to the large national park to the west of Hogwarts. "That's where they think it landed. That was three hours ago."

Harry looked at her in surprise. "That recent?"

She grinned a bit. "The Quibbler is notorious for their speed on these types of events."

"Says here it might not be a UFO at all," Ron said doubtfully, pointing to a small section with even smaller text. "Could be a meteorite or something. Or even a Muggle what's-its-name, a heliocaptor-"

"Yes, yes," Hermione agreed impatiently, flapping a hand. "Helicopter, Ron, and that's most likely what the major newspapers will play it off as, space debris or an aircraft – no one truly believed in the first UFO, why would they believe in a second? But in this instance, I think the Quibbler's right. Think about it. The object's estimated size and velocity is similar to that of Obi-Wan and Master Jinn's ship – it makes a comparison to the 'December UFO,' right here – except that it _wasn't_ spiraling. As in, its descent was _orderly, _which is how a spaceship might touch down if the occupants were _in_ _control,_unlike Obi-Wan's crash landing. And the presumed location of the vessel? Right next to Hogwarts, where Obi-Wan and his Master just happen to be staying."

"And if Obi-Wan and Jinn have managed to make contact with the other Jedi," Harry added, beginning to catch some of Hermione's enthusiasm, "and it's entirely possible they could have, they've had plenty of time and opportunity and the knowledge of who-knows-what kind of technology – wouldn't it make sense the Jedi would send someone to help them out? They have to get off the planet somehow, and the only way I can think of is to use another ship."

"Or it could be another blue alien out to attack us all," Ron pointed out, but the true disagreement had gone out of his voice and he seemed as animated as the other two.

"It could," Hermione acknowledged, "but I doubt it. How would another alien know just where to land?"

Ron nodded. "So what are we going to do about it?" he asked. "Tell Dumbledore?"

"I think we should go find Obi-Wan and Jinn," Harry said, already thinking ahead of more or less valid excuses he could use later for skipping class. Some Puking Pastilles ought to do it... "We can send a message to Dumbledore with Dobby, but I want to find out what's going on. If Obi-Wan and Jinn did make contact with the Jedi, and this spacecraft has those new Jedi in it, they'll know."

"We can't tell Dumbledore we're skipping class!" Hermione exclaimed, scandalized.

"We won't," Harry assured, "we'll have Dobby say he noticed and not us, or something. As long as we're under the Cloak and Dumbledore can deny he ever saw us...I think he'll let us slide," Harry concluded with a sly grin, thinking back to his previous dealings with the Headmaster.

Ron grinned, too. "Let's do it!" The boys looked to the third member of their trio.

Hermione hesitated, no doubt shying away from neglecting her studies. "Well..."

"Come on, Hermione," Ron urged, "how often do space people come to Earth? This is history! First contact!"

That seemed to convince her; she relented, saying, "Oh, all right, let's go. Quickly, and maybe I can get back in time for Runes..."

Harry and Ron traded a look, but took the assent for what it was worth. "Let's go get my Cloak and tell Dobby," Harry said, and together they hurried up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

It was becoming more and more difficult to hide three people under one Cloak, Harry had to admit. While it had been easy in their first year, now was a different matter – Ron, especially, had shot up like a weed over the years. The Cloak was generously sized, but it could only do so much. This made their trek to the first floor corridor something of a challenge, with much bumping into one another and stepping on toes. When the gargoyle answered in the negative as to the presence of the Jedi, the trio diverted their path towards the Forest.

The trip across the grounds was both easier because there were fewer obstacles to avoid, and harder because of the distance. They left no footprints, as they took care to walk in those areas where the snow was fully melted. It was only when they arrived at the treeline and were safely under its cover that they removed the Cloak.

"Much better," Ron said with approval, rolling his shoulders and stretching.

They took the same path they'd taken with Hagrid when they first came to introduce the Jedi to their new lodgings in the castle, and soon were approaching the clearing where the Herd had last resided. Near there, a quiet debate ensued as to whether or not they should re-don the Cloak and try and go through the whole Herd unnoticed, or simply ask if Obi-Wan and Jinn were nearby, and hope the centaurs weren't too territorial.

"If we wear the Cloak and they catch us," Hermione argued heatedly, "they'll be all sorts of angry. It's best we just announce our presence and don't try to hide."

"But if we see Jinn and Obi-Wan, they'll know we're here!" Ron protested. "Since it's school hours they'd probably send us back to the castle, and we wouldn't get to see the new Jedi."

Keeping his voice low, Harry added, "Or they might not want us to be in on a meeting between them and the other Jedi in the first place."

"On the contrary," a new voice interjected, "I believe it's fitting our hosts from Earth meet the other Jedi ambassadors."

All three jumped, startled, and turned. Standing some distance away, his hand resting on a tree trunk and his smile welcoming, stood Jinn. He wore his customary brown robe, and he blended into the Forest uncannily. Beside him stood Obi-Wan, looking calm and unsurprised, face less expressive than that of his Master but still pleasant. His thin braid trailed over his shoulder like a vine.

Cringing inwardly, Harry wondered how long they'd been there.

"Oh." Hermione blushed a bit, obviously embarrassed and worried about being caught. "Sorry, Master Jinn, we didn't mean to intrude-"

"It's alright." Jinn smiled. "I can understand your curiosity, and you were quite clever to deduce so quickly that other Jedi had landed. May I ask what tipped you off?"

"Of course," Hermione said with distraction, and flicked her wand over one of the inner pockets of her robe. Out of the small space came the complete Quibbler. She opened it up as she had for Harry and Ron and showed them the article.  
Stepping nearer to his Master, Obi-Wan leaned in, his eyes flickering over the words, Jinn's tracking the writing as well. When they were done, they traded a close glance. Jinn looked amused.

"Interesting," was all he said, though, as he handed Hermione back the paper.

"A long shot," Obi-Wan commented.

Hermione was, unsurprisingly, curious. "If you don't mind my asking," she began daringly, "why would they make their landing so obvious? Don't you have something that can hide a ship's presence?"

"Yes," Jinn replied mildly, "but few ships use them. Cloaking devices block both sensors and the eye from detecting a vessel, but also keep that craft from being able to scan or see its surrounding area. They blind those who wish to see them, but they also blind themselves. Thus, a cloaking device's usefulness is limited. It is also important to note," Jinn added, "that, usually, Jedi are not in the habit of dropping by planets that have not achieved a certain level of space travel. For those planets that have, we simply announce our presence and request permission to land, so there is no need for secrecy."

"What about landing on an enemy's planet?" Ron asked. "Wouldn't you want to cloak then?"

Jinn and Obi-Wan met each other's eyes a moment. "The circumstances in which we would knowingly land on an enemy's planet are different," Jinn finally said. "The Order cultivates peace, not strife. If we did need to somehow get to the surface of such a planet, however, there are other, more efficient ways."

Before any of the three had a chance to ask just what those ways were, Obi-Wan spoke. "We should leave soon, Master."

Jinn nodded. "Agreed. You are welcome to come with us," he said to the wizards and witch, "though it is true that, had this been another matter, entering the Forest on your own without telling anyone your intentions, especially during class hours, may not have been the best decision."

Feeling the gentle chastisement, the three students nodded, looking at various things in the Forest other than the Jedi.  
"What you learn may one day save you," Obi-Wan added, voice solemn.

Harry rather doubted the ability to brew a skin-cleansing potion would ever save his life, but then, he supposed a Jedi might learn different sorts of things in his classes.

Jinn gestured them over. "Come. We'll resume our journey to meet those who have arrived to aid us."

Trading glances, Harry, Ron, and Hermione obligingly followed. The air was cool and the shade was cooler as they passed through thickets of pines, before the sky would abruptly reveal itself from behind those trees that were leafless. All around them were the murky colors of early spring; dull gray rocks, muddy brown grass, and remnants of impure white snow. It wasn't long before Harry realized they were walking deeper into the Forest, not out of it. "Where are we going, exactly?" he inquired, stepping over a large tree root.

Obi-Wan looked over his shoulder to answer. "The Jedi are coming from the other side of the Forest. We'll meet them halfway."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He'd never been all the way through the Forest, far enough to come out the other side. "So we're heading towards that national park?" he guessed, thinking of the article.

"Yes."

"How do you know where they are?" Hermione inquired. She, too, had to clamber over a spread of tree roots, so her question was punctuated with uneven pauses as she concentrated on grasping some root or another.

"We can feel their presence in the Force." Obi-Wan, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the terrain.

"That's got to be right handy," Ron commented, clearing the last of the roots himself. Wiping off his hands on his robe, he asked, "Can you feel us in the Force, too?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "Yes."

"That's how you knew we were coming, isn't it," Hermione stated keenly, as she, her friends, and the Jedi resumed traversing the Forest on a flatter span of land. "Though I doubt we feel quite the same to you as other Jedi."

Obi-Wan simply gave a small smile, and looked ahead, continuing to walk at his Master's side.

Harry didn't know how much time had passed before Jinn and Obi-Wan paused, as one. Harry, Ron, and Hermione came to stand next to them.

"Are they here?" Ron asked eagerly, scanning the local flora.

Jinn looked off into the distance. "Almost."

And, soon enough, in the shade of the pines, Harry could see movement; two people, it seemed, both brown-robed and picking nimbly through the forest. As they neared, Harry saw they were women; the first was bronze-skinned and wore what looked like some kind of brown headdress with white fronds coming down on either side of her face. The other was younger, pretty, and looked remarkably human – that is to say, if it weren't for her clothes, she could have been any passerby in the street. Her hair was blonde and shoulder-length, and she walked to the left and slightly behind the older Jedi.

Harry stole a glance at 'their' Jedi. They stood a few feet apart from him and his friends, and both seemed as serene as ever, standing in habitual poses with their arms loosely held across their torsos. Jinn was smiling a bit, and Obi-Wan's face was neutral.

The two new Jedi took a few more paces before halting. Silently, both women bowed; the action was mirrored by Obi-Wan and Jinn.

"Greetings, Adi, Padawan Tachi." Jinn broke the silence. "It's good to see familiar faces."

The woman smiled, too. "I can imagine. Hello, Qui-Gon, Padawan Kenobi."

Both Obi-Wan and the younger woman murmured greetings as well.

Then the woman turned to him, and suddenly Harry found himself on the other end of a smile as kind as it was beautiful. Unconsciously, he stood straighter. He hoped he didn't have any twigs sticking out of his hair. "And your acquaintances?" she asked, her voice rich and smooth.

"Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger," Jinn said, gesturing to each of them. Harry wasn't in the custom of bowing to people he met, and they were too far away to shake hands, so he just kind of waved a bit, trying not to look too awkward. Ron seemed to feel the same way, but Hermione handled the introduction more gracefully than either of them.

"Hello," she said, and actually gave a pretty good approximation of a bow. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The feeling is mutual." The woman's voice was melodious. "I am Jedi Master Adi Gallia, and this is my Padawan, Siri Tachi. I offer greetings from the Jedi Order, and I must compliment you on your planet; it is as richly diverse in its lifeforms as it is beautiful."

With her words, Harry was struck anew that this was no ordinary introduction; though they might look human enough, these people were, more or less, alien. It was a distinctly surreal fact for Harry to be aware of. He was talking with more people from _space_. They were really real, and, of all things, they were complimenting Earth, as Mrs. Weasley might tell another witch she had a well-kept house.

Strange.

Hermione looked a bit surprised. "Oh, um, thank you," she replied with some haste, then added humbly, "I suppose you've been to many planets more wondrous than ours."

Gallia elegantly raised an eyebrow and shook her head. "On the contrary, your planet is unique among those I have visited. Yours is a fortunate species." Luckily – or perhaps it wasn't luck at all, perhaps it was the Jedi Master's intuitive graciousness – Gallia spared Hermione with having to come up with a reply, turning back to Jinn.

Quietly, Hermione breathed a sigh. Harry tapped her on the shoulder; when she looked at him, he offered, "Not bad."

She grinned. "It's so exciting," she whispered back breathlessly, before turning her attention to the Jedi.

"Do you have any pressing needs?" Gallia was asking. "Siri and I are here to assist in any way possible. What of the disease that afflicted the centaurs?"

"Actually, Adi," Jinn responded mildly, "you have come at something of a lull. The centaurs are healed, and there is no present danger."

Obviously, Harry surmised, Gallia and Siri must have, at some point, been in communication with either Obi-Wan and Jinn themselves or someone the male Jedi pair had talked to. How else would they know about the telepathic disease, without knowing that it had been cured?

Gallia kept her brow raised. "And non-present danger?"

"Ah." Jinn smiled. "There is that, yes, which bears some discussion."

Gallia nodded seriously.

The Jedi taking the lead, they set off for the clearing near the Herd that Obi-Wan and Jinn had been using before coming to the castle. Talking energetically amongst themselves, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed. After a moment, however, Obi-Wan dropped back to walk beside the wizards and witch.

"There will be many introductions," he explained, "both with the Herd and at the castle. Should you wish to return to your classes, I will make your excuses."

Siri had fallen behind as well, and she caught what Obi-Wan said. "What he really means," she added conspiratorially, "is that you're about to be bored to death. If you want to escape, better run now."

Harry looked from one Padawan to the other. Instead of answering their request, he blurted, "Do you two know one another?"

Siri just smiled friendlily, not seeming affronted in the least. "Obi-Wan and I had some classes together at the Temple." Obi-Wan, for his part, calmly watched.

"What kinds of classes?" Hermione asked with interest, and Ron and Harry traded a look. Trust Hermione to latch onto schoolwork even when it was another world's students.

Siri seemed happy enough to answer, though, and soon she and Hermione took over the conversation, chatting easily about this class and that. Obi-Wan walked with them, obviously listening but gaze forward. He didn't interject anything, however, and Harry was quietly, effectively, being struck by how different the two Padawans seemed, even during the short time since he'd met the female Padawan. They learned more from the expressive Siri in that first fifteen minutes than they had from Obi-Wan in weeks.

Despite himself, Harry raptly listened to all that Siri had to say, and found himself back at the Herd before he knew it. Too late he remembered Obi-Wan's offer to sneak them out, and so he did, indeed, stand through another round of introductions.

Fortunately it didn't last too long, as Jinn made it clear they were only passing through and would not be bringing more people to stay with the Herd. Several times Jinn emphasized, loudly, that fact; Gallia echoed his statement. Harry wondered why it was so important.

"It's an intrusion," Obi-Wan murmured quietly, and Harry jumped a bit; he'd almost forgotten the Jedi was there, so quiet had he been.

"How did you know my question?" Harry asked. His brows furrowed a bit. "Can you read minds?"

"I cannot."

"You just had 'question' written all over your face," Siri added with a grin.

Obi-Wan smiled that small, polite smile, both towards the trio of wizards and her.

"So why are we even here if it's an intrusion?" Hermione speculated in a whisper as the introductions concluded, and the Jedi, wizards, and a pair of important-looking centaurs resumed walking through the clearing that housed the Herd, skirting the main gathering and sticking to the edges. It seemed less populated than Harry remembered, and he wondered where all the other centaurs had gone.

Up front, Jinn and Gallia talked with the centaurs. Siri mock-glanced around them. "Don't tell, but we kind of parked our ship in the forest next door. We'll need it to get off the planet, so we have to ensure that, you know, it's intact. For that, we like to get the permission of the locals so they don't interfere. And it's just good manners to introduce ourselves," she added.

Hermione's face lit up. "You mean your ship's in the Cairngorms? Can we see?"

Siri laughed a bit, not seeming perturbed by the looks she was given from those centaurs who were, in fact, resting in the clearing, and Harry was again struck by the contrast between her and Obi-Wan. Next to her, Obi-Wan seemed...almost expressionless, like a living statue. He wasn't without feeling, Harry knew – all he had to remember was the heartrending scream when the Draethos had slit Jinn's throat. Still, the dissimilarities in mannerisms confused him. Which was truly how a Padawan was supposed to be?

"No, sorry," Siri was explaining to a disappointed Hermione. "It's in a place you can't get to, believe me. It was a pain to get it there, too," she added in afterthought. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sneak a ship into a forest? Spacecraft were not designed to fit through trees."

Jinn, Gallia, and the centaur pair, all slightly ahead, entered the offshoot clearing the Jedi had stayed in for the duration of their time in the Herd. Harry followed, already having seen the location and shrugged it off as mostly unremarkable, but was surprised when he heard Siri ask, "_That's_where you've been sleeping?"

Harry looked her way; she was staring at the small shelter the Jedi had constructed – 'cozy' would be the most polite way to describe the cramped space. The female Padawan appeared startled, and there was something unreadable in her gaze when she turned it to Obi-Wan, searching his face as if for explanation.

But, as Harry knew from experience, Obi-Wan rarely elaborated if he didn't have or want to. "Yes," was all he said. He looked as calm as ever, but there was a note of...something, that Harry couldn't pin down in his voice.

Harry looked at him, and back at Siri.

Siri was frowning slightly. "Obi-Wan..." Then she glanced at Harry and his friends, and her expression eased.

"Headmaster Dumbledore will most likely offer you lodgings at the castle too, of course," Hermione offered, referring to Siri and her Master, "so you won't have to sleep in the Forest." But she was watching both Padawans carefully. Apparently she'd picked up on the weirdness going on between them, and was trying to fish out the source of Siri's disturbance.

"And my Master and I will be most happy to accept whatever housing is offered, should an offer be made," Siri answered diplomatically, and even gave a slight bow. Then her demeanor shifted. "Really, we're able to find our own place to stay if needed; it's not a big deal."

Hermione nodded. "Still, I'm sure Dumbledore will offer."

Harry, meanwhile, had noticed Jinn and Gallia bidding the centaurs goodbye and approaching, and he wasn't the only one; Obi-Wan quietly left the conversation, watching his Master walk towards them, meeting him halfway, and taking a place on his left.

Siri rolled her eyes. "So proper," she said, smiling at Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "I knew he was going to make me look bad." She shrugged, then followed Obi-Wan's initiative and went to stand beside her Master, too.

Jinn spoke. "We intend to meet the Headmaster at the castle," he informed them, "and, as you three seem to be missing from your classes-" Harry caught the corner of Siri's lip lifting mischievously, "-you may want to divert from our path as we enter the school and return to your studies."

"I believe this would be wise," Gallia agreed, and gave them a very McGonagall-esque look.

It had the desired effect. "Yes, ma'am," Ron answered promptly.

They made their way together towards the edge of the Forest; there, Harry, Ron, and Hermione ducked under the Invisibility Cloak, asking for and receiving confirmation that they could not be seen before they crossed the line that separated Forest from field.

At the doors to the castle, the trio entered when the Jedi did, so that no one would see the doors opening by themselves. They whispered their goodbyes, which were returned with courtesy, and went towards Gryffindor Tower to collect their things for afternoon classes.

They waited until they were out of earshot before they spoke. "I wonder if the Jedi will leave soon," Hermione said, looking a bit crestfallen at the thought. "With a ship, they could go whenever they wanted. And I was hoping to find out more about them..."

"I bet they stick around. They said there was still – how'd they put it? – 'non-present' danger here," Harry pointed out.

Hermione was contemplative. "Yes, but – I wonder what?"

Neither Ron nor Harry had an answer for that.

* * *

After they bid their fellow Jedi goodnight at their rooms in the castle, he walks with his Master to their own chambers. It's evening, and children in the hallways are scarce. Those they do pass watch the Jedi with wide eyes, and Obi-Wan in particular receives looks both wary and awed. Such a thing doesn't bother him; the reaction is common enough, and he has had years to adjust to it.

His Master strokes the gargoyle as it steps aside to let them in. As with most sentient creatures, Qui-Gon has taken a liking to it, and the hawk seems to reciprocate the sentiment. With sleight of hand a pickpocket would envy, Obi-Wan sees his Master slip the bird a sizable stone.

"We cannot take it with us," Obi-Wan murmurs, just in case.

His Master looks over his shoulder, and there's a flash of white teeth as he grins. "Yes, Padawan." His voice is playful and dutiful at once.

Obi-Wan smiles.

Inside, Obi-Wan slips off his robe, going to his room to lay it neatly on his bed, and takes a moment to relax the stiffness in his shoulders. Being among other Jedi has left him feeling stifled and mildly irritated, and he isn't sure why. In response to his feelings, he takes off his boots, for good measure, and the heavier, outer layer of his tunics, as if freedom from the constraint of clothing can free his mind as well. Barefoot now, he pads out of the bedroom.

When he returns to the living room, his Master raises an eyebrow, and there's something suspiciously like good humor in his eyes, but he doesn't comment, for which Obi-Wan is glad. Wordlessly, Obi-Wan goes to the kitchen, rummaging about in the refrigerator. He could have the elves of the castle prepare their meals, of course; but he will not relinquish this tradition, and, gently but firmly, he insisted that the elves only bring him raw ingredients. They listened, but they thought it very strange.

Dinner is quiet. As he eats, Obi-Wan uses the rote familiarity of the action to soothe himself, being mindful of each bite he takes, feeling the texture of the food on his tongue. He weighs the fork in his hand. He breathes deeply. Gradually, his dual feelings of constriction and ire roll through him like waves of the ocean, and with each wave the sea calms a little more, receding. His Master surely feels his slow, steady release of emotion, the process so unhurried that there is almost no physical manifestation; just a ripple in his water glass.

By the time dinner is finished, so, too, is Obi-Wan. Much calmer, he dons his tunic, boots, and robe again. Upon seeing him redressed, his Master smiles. Obi-Wan walks to the door, then turns to see his Master watching him.

"I have energy, and I seek an outlet," he explains. "I'll practice some lightsabre katas until I am tired."

Qui-Gon nods. "Of course."

About to leave, Obi-Wan pauses with his hand on the doorknob. Shifts so he can see his Master again, and asks, "Would you like to come with me?"

And Qui-Gon grins, and touches his hand to his sabre, resting at his side. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Several days later, the evening sun elongates his shadow and those of the trees scattered across the mostly grassy field. He keeps his back to the star, adjusting his weight and bringing his arms up to hold his lightsabre in a raised position, hands near his chin. He steps forward, lifting his hands above the center of his head, striking downward with sudden speed, lightsabre humming, stopping with his arms stretched parallel to the ground and his sabre at an angle. Lowering his hands and shifting back slightly, then forward again, he lunges, arms at an angle and sabre parallel to the ground. Bringing his back foot forward, he maintains the position long enough for several breaths before stepping backwards, straightening his sabre again so it faces the ground.

He assumes the opponent's position then, his arms held low and at his side, his lightsabre behind him, humming softly. Advancing, he brings his sabre above his head and strikes downward, arms once more parallel to the ground, sabre at an angle. He holds this position, then twists and raises his arms so his sabre is held perpendicular to his body, stepping to the side to avoid an imaginary thrust and bringing his sabre above his head, striking downward in a mimic of his first attack. Remaining in the pose for several moments, he steps forward with one foot and realigns himself, then lowers his sabre and paces backwards.

This is one of many basic exercises he practices with regularity, whether he's away on missions or spending those infrequent few days on Coruscant. Sometimes he is alone; sometimes his Master is on the other end of a sabre, facing him with that familiar mix of serenity and focused intensity. Obi-Wan strives to emulate Qui-Gon in that regard, immersing himself in the movements until his mind is calm and he exists only in sensation and reaction.

It does not, however, mean he loses awareness of his surroundings; rather, his world is expanded, as he takes in his environs with unworried observation. And it is this peripheral alertness that lets him feel the approach of Gallia's Padawan, first through the Force, then with his sight and hearing. Awaiting her, he continues on to another kata. She watches him as she advances.

When she arrives, she seamlessly integrates herself into the kata as the opponent, so that Obi-Wan's next strike, though it follows the form, shies away from actually striking her. She does not flinch; knowing the basic katas as well as he, she follows with the corresponding withdrawal and counterattack, and is dodged. In this manner they continue for some time.  
As the sun lowers, the glow of their sabres shines brighter in the dark, and the blue glow of her blade casts color across her form, as he knows it does his, as well. In a flash, he sees Qui-Gon instead, where she is, with the green of his blade, so appropriate for one in tune with the Living Force, casting reflections onto the deep blue of his eyes, as they smile, perhaps, in satisfaction at the end of their practice. He blinks; the image clears. Finishing the final kata, they bow to one another and step back, disengaging their blades. The humming halts.

She regards him. "Where is your Master?" she asks. Her voice seems discordant, for a moment, so immersed in the quiet has he become. Allowing the disruption as he re-acclimates himself to a speaking world, his breathing remains slow and even.

"In the Forest," he replies. They speak in Basic, and the syllables feel comfortable and familiar. "Do you seek him?"

She tilts her head. "No, not really." She pauses. Her voice becomes slightly hesitant, and he has the impression she chooses her words carefully. "I rarely see you without him." She is oddly intent.

He inclines his head marginally. He is unsure of the direction in which she chooses to take this conversation, but the first hint of defensiveness creeps into his feelings.

"I see you're no closer to your Knighting than I am." She touches the slim braid hidden in her unbound hair. "Has Master Jinn given you any indication?"

Obi-Wan considers. "None outright, but he will tell me when he feels the need."

She watches him. "Yes, I suppose he will." Another pause. "Do you ever ask?"

"No."

She frowns. "Why not?"

Now Obi-Wan frowns, too. "He will tell me," he repeats, "when he feels the need. Whether or not I ask will not hasten the timing of his decision."

"It might," she presses. "How do you know?"

Feeling slightly provoked without really knowing why, he replies, "Because I know my Master." It is as simple as that, and always has been.

This seems to confirm something for Gallia's Padawan; her expression becomes studiously neutral. Again, Obi-Wan feels a faint prickling of annoyance. Gentling his thoughts, he releases his vexation to the Force as best he can.

"Obi-Wan."

He meets her eyes. "Yes?"

She is somber. "You always seemed a competent Jedi. Do not lose sight of that." Her voice becomes a bit hard. "For the sake of the Jedi Order, I would have you remember this: there are certain things you cannot do or be, not and remain Jedi, and you would do well to remember them."

Ah. Somehow, she must know: _emotion, yet peace._

Has he changed so much?

Taking a moment to unlock the knot growing in his chest, he remains calm. "I am in full acceptance of my capabilities." He does not linger too long on the strangeness of defending his new way of being; he had not expected opposition, so soon.

She sighs, and abruptly loses some of her formality. "I'm trying to look out for you. My intentions are good. Can't you see that?"

"I believe that you believe your intentions are well-meaning, yes. But I grow more certain of my path the longer I tread it, and from it I shall not be moved." Saying this, he feels its rightness; feels it take root in his heart, and wonders if this is how Qui-Gon feels, facing down his peers.

Her expression speaks of disappointment, and a hint of sadness and pity. "Then no one can help you." With a last glance at him over her shoulder, she turns, shaking her head and striding off across the field, back towards the castle.

Obi-Wan watches her leave. Will she go to Master Gallia? Will Master Gallia go to the Council? And if they do, what will that mean for him and his Master, who also lives his life by the old Code?

He does not know. Exhaling and inhaling several times with purposeful mindfulness, he sets off for his destination. He does not return to the castle. Somewhere in the Forest, he knows, is his Master; and right now, with his Master is where he wishes to be.

The sun sets over the horizon.

* * *

Days passed, and soon it had been a week since the arrival of the two other Jedi. Harry saw them every once in a while, sometimes with Jinn and Obi-Wan, sometimes not. While Gallia was kind to all, her beauty was intimidating; Siri, however, was openly friendly, and soon had people waving to her in the halls when she walked by. He also saw, more and more often, Jinn and Obi-Wan out on the grounds, their lightsabres glowing from afar like muted stars in the early mornings and evenings.

One night, no different than any other, Harry couldn't sleep. So he climbed out of bed, pulled his Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk – that thing was earning its keep, lately – and, with careful glances and quiet footsteps, set to roaming about the castle.

He passed Nearly Headless Nick conversing with a portrait of a dignified Victorian lady; the ghost glanced in his direction and gave him a large wink. Beneath his Cloak, Harry grinned, waved, and continued on. He went to the portrait guarding the kitchens, tickled the pear and got a snack from the house elves, and upon exiting had a close call with Snape, where the man stopped in the corridor and sniffed, and Harry tried his best to disperse the scent of the scones he carried while simultaneously creeping away. But Snape only looked at the kitchen portrait and sneered before walking away, and Harry let out a breath, glad that Snape seemed to assume the smell came from the kitchens themselves.

He went to the owlery and petted Hedwig a bit, smiling when she nibbled his fingers affectionately. When she flapped away from his side, it was to sit on a perch next to a rather imposing-looking black owl, who shifted closer to her. Harry smiled. It seemed Hedwig had found somebody special, too.

His final destination for the night before returning to try and sleep would be the astronomy tower, he decided. Navigating the corridors with an ease his first-year self would never have dreamed to possess, Harry made his way up the spiral staircases. When he reached the hatch that led to the outside, however, he found it already open. Curious as to who might be awake and on the tower at such an hour – most likely it was simply Professor Sinistra herself, but still – Harry quietly made his onto the tower.

At the top, however, was not who he expected.

As they seemed prone to do, the Jedi pair popped up where he least expected them; tonight Jinn and Obi-Wan stood near the parapet, robed, with their hands in their sleeves and their backs to Harry. Dark as the night was, so were the stars bright, and the sky was clear. Neither spoke, though both had their heads tilted towards the sky.

Stargazing, Harry surmised. Maybe they were homesick. Could they see their planet from Earth?

Trusting in his Cloak to keep him unnoticed, Harry remained a few moments more to see if they would do or discuss anything interesting. He didn't suspect them, he was just...curious, about the kinds of things they might do when they thought no one was around. When they stayed still as statues, however, Harry shrugged to himself and prepared to climb back down. He _could _reveal himself, he supposed, but the moment felt private enough as it was and already he was feeling a bit guilty about staying as long as he had. He put a foot down a rung on the ladder-

"I see your mother with you often," Jinn said quietly.

Harry stopped, ears pricked, and waited to see if the Jedi would say anything else to his apprentice. But the silence stretched on, and Obi-Wan didn't give any indication he'd heard his Master speak.

"She's there more than you know," Jinn continued, and still, Obi-Wan didn't respond. Harry looked around, uncertain. Who was Jinn talking to?

"If you'd like to speak to her, Harry, we can help you."

Now Harry halted dead in his tracks. Knowing he'd been caught, he slowly gathered the Cloak from his shoulders and looped it around his arm, climbing fully onto the rooftop. He swallowed, registering just what had been said. "What do you mean?"

"She's very proud of you." Jinn's voice was even and soft as velvet. His eyes were fixed on the stars; his face, in profile, gentle and tranquil. Neither he nor his Padawan ever once looked at Harry.

Vaguely unnerved, Harry narrowed his eyes, swallowing again and trying to appear more confident than he felt. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said accusingly, but his voice shook.

"She loves you very much," the Jedi said quietly.

"What are you-"

"She's here now." Harry shivered, but not from fear. Something in the Jedi's voice wasn't – wasn't normal, not like a normal person's... "Can you feel her?"

"I-" he swallowed once more, suddenly not so sure that everything Jinn was saying wasn't, in fact, real, and true, and happening right now. His mother... "Here? She's – here?"

"Yes." A whisper, barely tickling his senses, as if Jinn weren't really there, except as an ethereal guiding voice... "Let your thoughts go, Harry. Open your mind." Quiet, insistent urgings. A presence inside his mind, foreign yet nonthreatening, leading him forward. "Trust your feelings." The night seemed to darken further around him, but for the glowing blue light that he felt more than saw, the light that was –

"It's her love, Harry, for you."

Harry gasped. Because suddenly he _knew _and he _felt _her, there, his mother, as if her arms were around his shoulders, warm and loving and just like he'd always hoped.

"_Harry..."_

He choked on a sob, because that sounded like-

"Mum?"

"Harry, _dear..." _He could hear her murmuring more, sweet things, loving things, but it was a sound just beyond the range of his hearing. His mother, speaking to him, holding him, and he didn't know when or where he was anymore, but it was the most wonderful place in the world.

* * *

Obi-Wan extricates himself from the boy's mind, feeling his Master do the same with that of the boy's mother. Together they leave the tower, no longer intruders on as close a family reunion as the boy will ever get, while living.

The walk back to their chambers is quiet.

_Love..._

Love is too raw; he avoids his Master the rest of the night. But the spirit comes to him anyway, deep in the middle of the night, and the light of the moon colors her shifting blue glow with white.

"Thank you and your Master," she whispers, grasping his hand in both of hers the only way she could, through feelings and thoughts and all things intangible but through the Force.

"Thank you."

* * *

In the morning, Obi-Wan wakes before dawn, as is his nature. He rises, stretching, and dresses, before leaving his room and entering the chamber they've reserved just for meditation. His Master, no doubt, is still asleep, and does not rise during the entirety of Obi-Wan's grounding exercises. It is not until Obi-Wan has gone to the kitchen and made a simple breakfast of tea and seasoned bread that his Master exits his room, joining Obi-Wan in the kitchen.

Obi-Wan half-bows in greeting. "Master."

His Master smiles, a hint of sleep lingering in his eyes. "Padawan." Then he yawns, and Obi-Wan turns to hide his smile.

"I saw that."

Innocently, Obi-Wan turns back around, face now under control. "Saw what, Master?"

Qui-Gon grumbles something unintelligible. Obi-Wan bites his cheek to keep from smiling, and indicates the table, where he's set two places, inviting his Master to breakfast. He then starts to fetch the tea, but a hand on his arm stops him.

"Obi-Wan."

He turns. "Master?"

Qui-Gon meets his eyes. There is something in them that Obi-Wan cannot fathom; but it is something deep and powerful, and it draws him, so that, without thinking, he takes a step closer.

His Master doesn't move away. "Come with me, Padawan," is all he says, before turning calmly and walking, pace measured, to their meditation chamber. Without protest, Obi-Wan follows. The rugs feel soft under his bare feet, and his tunics shift soundlessly as he follows his Master to the floor in lotus. Qui-Gon places the incense burner between them and selects a stick – patchouli, once more. Obi-Wan allows his curiosity to show, but his Master only smiles, a crinkling of the eyes, and places his fingertips on the edge of the stick. His eyes on Obi-Wan, he lights the incense with a touch of the Force to cause friction.

Obi-Wan feels a warm, curling heat suffusing his belly, not unlike the twisting smoke that rises delicately from the incense and twines about the air between them.

For a long while, nothing is said. His Master's eyes are open but unfocused, looking at nothing in particular, and Obi-Wan waits without hurry, tracing with his gaze the lines of a few plants scattered in the chamber, tracking their outlines as an artist might. When he finishes with this exercise and still his Master has not spoken, he finds himself drawn to study the man. His Master's hair is partially pulled back in a horsetail, and his cream-colored outer tunics catch the early morning sun and make the fabric glow. His Master's posture is straight and relaxed, his breathing slow and deep.

When Qui-Gon does speak, his voice is contemplative and the slightest bit hesitant. "I have learned something from the spirit of the boy's mother."

At this, Obi-Wan almost stops breathing, though he tries not to appear overly on guard. "...Yes?" If the spirit talked to Qui-Gon of the same things about which she talked to her son... Things like love...

"I wondered when I first saw her how she was able to live beyond death as a spirit of the Force. And so I asked her; and she told me." More hesitation. "Obi-Wan. Her love granted her a spirit form to watch over her son. 'Death, yet the Force.'" Another pause, then:

"I may be able to adapt her technique so that, even if I should die, I will never leave you."

Then he waits. As if Obi-Wan knows how to respond to that. But his throat is suddenly dry and tight, and he swallows and can't speak past the staggering implications.

"Obi-Wan-"

"But Jedi cannot love," he says, and he tries to be firm but his voice comes out a whisper.

"That is what the Code teaches us..." He feels his Master's eyes on him.

"And the Code is what we follow," Obi-Wan responds, but his voice is shaky.

"It is not the Code I follow," Qui-Gon responds amicably, but the reminder is a sharp jolt to Obi-Wan's senses: _emotion, yet peace. _"And lately, I had believed it was not the Code you follow, either. You know as well as I its original form." And he watches him with intense blue eyes. Obi-Wan feels his gaze like moonlight on an ocean tide; pulling, pulling, pulling.

His Master stands. He comes over to Obi-Wan, close. Obi-Wan feels a shiver creep up his back, but he can't step away, held captive as he is by his Master's allure.

"What do you feel, Obi-Wan?"

It is out of respect for his Master and their long, close relationship that Obi-Wan answers honestly. "...Fear."

"And what are you afraid of?"

"...You."

His Master draws back slightly. "Me?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why, Obi-Wan?" He sounds pained. His eyes search Obi-Wan's for understanding.

He cannot bear to see his Master think he's done wrong; it is this that spurs him to answer with what he has kept hidden for so long. "I am afraid," he eventually answers quietly, "to lose you." Hesitantly, he bares a corner of his greatest fear; then looks at his Master to gauge his reaction.

His Master's expression is one of relief. "I thought-" he shakes his head, and visibly regains his calm. "You know I will die one day, Obi-Wan."

He swallows. "I know."

"Then why do you fear it?"

"I don't." Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I fear...losing you, before your time."

The room is quiet and still. He can see dust motes lit by the light from the windows – real windows, not artificially created with magic. He can smell, if he concentrates, the scent of warmed bread emanating from the kitchen; overpowering that, however, is the smell of the incense, earthy, familiar, and primal. The smoke curves and curls, artfully.

"You know the importance of staying mindful of the moment, my Padawan," Qui-Gon eventually says.

Obi-Wan frowns slightly at the familiar admonition. "Master. This is different."

"Oh?" His Master lets that one syllable carry a wealth of meaning.

And finally – now that he has bared one aspect of his fear, now Obi-Wan feels the time is right to tell his Master what has haunted him for so long, ever since the battle with the Sith. A sense of rightness settles in his being, and without worry he says, "The Unifying Force, Master. It has given me a possible future in which the Sith kills you."

He watches his Master digest that; knows that his Master must understand the implications of it being a vision from the Unifying Force, and not simply a fear.

"If the Force wills it to be so, it will be so-"

"I will not let it," Obi-Wan interrupts heatedly and with the distinct sensation that he's speaking with someone else's voice. He surprises himself with his own vehemence; Qui-Gon looks startled, too.

"Padawan, you cannot change the will of the Force-"

"I do not seek to change its will," he cuts Qui-Gon off again, a hint of harshness in his voice. "I seek to divert it down a different course. There are many futures, Master; what I see, may not come to pass. I will do my best to make it so."

Qui-Gon watches him, that familiar careful look on his face. "Why does this bother you so, Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan is nonplussed. "You are my Master. Why would I not mourn your passing?"

But even before he's finished, Qui-Gon's shaking his head. "No, it is more than that. I worry for you, Obi-Wan. What is it that disturbs you so about my possible death?"

Obi-Wan feels a quick little thrill. This conversation is approaching dangerous ground, his body warns him, as his heart rate increases and his shoulders tense. Dangerous ground, indeed; how is Obi-Wan to explain why Qui-Gon's death would distress him so, without admitting the depth of his affection? It is one thing to meditate with..._love _as his guide; quite another to admit that..._love _in the light of day. To express it, fully, and without restraint.

But to keep it inside...Obi-Wan feels this love could consume him whole if it does not achieve expression, so strongly does it take root in his heart.

But he makes one last, desperate attempt to prolong their conversation, so ingrained has it become to hide that which moves him. "...You know why, Master," he suggests, hoping that his Master comes up with his own explanation, one that Obi-Wan can then build upon.

But Qui-Gon isn't biting. "Do I?" his Master whispers. He reaches through the incense smoke, slowly. A hand at the nape of his neck; Obi-Wan shudders, all over, involuntarily. He feels his Master's surprise along their bond.

And feels incredulity, himself. "Do you truly not know, Master? I do not know how you could not."

"...Nevertheless, I do not know," his Master says quietly, "and it is up to you whether or not you shall illuminate me."

Then, silence.

Should he tell him? Should he let out this secret he's kept long-hidden and buried, locked tightly away from his own conscious acknowledgment for years?

_Emotion, yet peace. Passion, yet serenity._

"If I tell you," he begins in a whisper, "Master. If I tell you," he swallows, "do not think poorly of me." Again, he speaks as if he's someone else; he can't quite believe he's saying the things he plans to say. A sense of unreality permeates his thoughts. Is he really doing this?

"Of course not, Obi-Wan." Softly.

Obi-Wan swallows, caught in the thrall of emotion and the thrill of _this time_, this time he's not going to hide that emotion. He could use words; _could, _but as Jedi and this man's Padawan, there is a deeper, more powerful way he can express what he feels. Their bond. This time he's going to let his Master feel the full, unapologetic truth of his love, and he knows of no better way than to open himself, fully, along their bond – shift aside his shields and let his most personal self be known.

And so he does.

And when he does, when he opens his mind absolutely to his Master, Qui-Gon sucks in a breath, and his voice becomes audibly shaky. "Obi-Wan..."

"Master." Obi-Wan stops, changes his mind. Looks Qui-Gon right in the eye. If he's going to do this, he's going to do it all the way, without apology.

"Qui-Gon," he says instead. Reaches to take Qui-Gon's free hand, resting on his thigh, in his palms. Clasps it gently.

"I...love you."

An intake of breath, beautifully shaken.

"I love you," Obi-Wan repeats, suddenly overwhelmed himself. "I love you, Master, and that is why I do not wish to lose you. I love you more than I can say. I love you-"

"Enough," his Master says, and his voice is still unsteady. Suddenly emboldened by Qui-Gon's lack of composure, Obi-Wan slowly raises the hand he holds, slow enough to give his Master time to withdraw, should he wish it – slowly holds that hand close.

He looks into his Master's eyes, brings Qui-Gon's hand to his mouth, and kisses the back of his hand.

Qui-Gon inhales swiftly, and his hand trembles; but he _doesn't pull away._

So Obi-Wan slowly, sensually, turns Qui-Gon's hand over, one hand sliding some of the fabric of his sleeve down. He looks at his Master from beneath lowered lashes. Leans forward, and presses two soft kisses to Qui-Gon's wrist.

He knows there is no going back, not after this. Strangely, he is not afraid.

The hand leaves his neck, and comes to stroke the side of his cheek. "Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan..." his Master smiles, a breathtaking sight. Obi-Wan looks into the depthless blue of his Master's eyes, changeable and strong as the ocean, and begins to hope.

"Obi-Wan..." then his Master laughs, tremulously. "I..." He doesn't say anything else; perhaps he can't. Then he lets Obi-Wan feel a surge of his own emotion, like releasing a dam.

Obi-Wan can't breathe. "Qui-Gon..." He feels a thousand emotions at once, and his normally extensive vocabulary fails him; swept adrift on the currents of Qui-Gon's love, Obi-Wan is wordless with joy.

"Yes, Padawan." His Master laughs, then leans his forehead in close, leans down and touches it to Obi-Wan's. Their breath mingles when he says, "Yes. I love you, too. Obi-Wan, I love you so-"

This time it's Obi-Wan who closes his Master's sentence; he tilts his chin upward and meets his Master's lips with his own. The kiss is perhaps the most wonderful thing he's ever felt; awash in relief, joy, and love, he surrenders himself to the moment and kisses his Master with every bit of his being, his mind open to his Master's, meeting it halfway, their thoughts brushing against one another like butterfly kisses, their love endless as the sea.

It's intoxicating; Obi-Wan doesn't want to stop kissing this beautiful, wonderful man in front of him, as love and wonder suffuse his being. Eventually, their lips separate, but their minds do not. Staggered by the entirety of Qui-Gon's emotion, Obi-Wan wonders fleetingly if his Master feels the same. He feels he has so much of himself to give, enough to fill up every nook and cranny of his Master's being, if Qui-Gon allows it.

"I love you," Obi-Wan whispers, and at the profession his Master seizes upon his lips once again, fiercely.

When his Master pulls back, Obi-Wan laughs, shaky in his joy. "Master. If every time I say I love you-"

Once again, swift as a hawk his Master kisses him. Obi-Wan laughs into Qui-Gon's kiss, giddy.

His Master smiles; Obi-Wan feels the curve of Qui-Gon's lips against his own. He reaches his hands up to twine in his Master's hair, caressing, and pulling him closer. His Master's hands squeeze spasmodically; at some point, they seem to have gripped each other tightly, and Obi-Wan can't for the life of him remember when or how they became so intertwined.

"Obi-Wan..." but Qui-Gon doesn't say anything else, just looks at him, with the kind of raw, intense gaze that makes Obi-Wan shiver in sweet anticipation, down to his bones.

"Qui-Gon," he breathes. Their minds are lovingly enmeshed in one another, so natural and wonderful a feeling that Obi-Wan can't understand why they haven't done it before. And he realizes that from this moment onward, nothing will ever be the same again, between them.

And he welcomes the change.

"I love you," he whispers.

And Qui-Gon smiles, then grins, roguishly, and kisses him again.


End file.
